


Corvus Corone

by CaketinTheHobo



Series: Birds of a Feather [2]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games), Thief (Video Games)
Genre: Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Gore, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sequel, The gang's all back together and the stakes are even higher, Will not follow plot of Dishonored 2, listen it's easier to tag with extremes than to not tag at all amirite
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-19 13:36:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 75,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8210492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaketinTheHobo/pseuds/CaketinTheHobo
Summary: Five years have passed since Garrett and Corvo managed to foil several conspiracies, outwit several assassins, and reclaim the last shard of the Primal Stone. They never expected to meet again.But when Garrett encounters a new, dangerous threat in his world, he'll need the help of his friend to even stand a chance against it. More than that - they'll both need the help of allies found in the most unexpected of places.And, somehow, they'll also need to unlock the secrets of a City that constantly changes and rebuilds, all the while racing against an enemy whose goal can only spell destruction for all of their worlds.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's finally here!!! I'm so glad to be back with a brand new story for you all - and it's one that's not going to be following the plot of any game, which should make this all the more fun!  
> One thing I will say - I came up with the main ideas for this way before I saw anything relating to Dishonored 2. So, there's that.
> 
> This chapter - and the entire fic - is written with the help of tumblr user sneaky-taffer! Please go send them love!  
>    
> This chapter contains some images! If they don't load, please let me know - I'll also be posting them to my tumblr and for accessibility I'll provide descriptions of them on the tumblr post! You'll have to excuse how terrible they are, too, they were drawn using Paint haha. They get the point across, though.
> 
> This first chapter contains references to torture, gore, and possible body horror/mutilation. Read with care, friends!

_“The more rules and regulations,_

_The more thieves and robbers.”_

- **Lao Tzu**

* * *

 

“I think I’m gonna go to the bear pits tomorrow. Wanna come with?”

“Nah. Can’t pay me enough to go there.”

The voices of the guards filtered up from the cobbled street below, breaking the silence that permeated the late hours of the night.

Garrett often paused in his work to listen to the guards’ chatter. Sometimes it was useful hints that would promise further profit. Other times it was inane babble that did nothing but distract. Other times it was a useful companion, a way for Garrett to while away his time without becoming too bored with the monotony of thieving.

(A _monotony_ of thieving. As if there was ever _monotony_ in his line of work.)

Garrett was waiting.

He was set to rob the house of a well-to-do noble, one of the old names of the City. Said noble – of the Bafford family – was currently away on business, and had elected to take his personal house guard with him.

He had left Garrett with a large house guarded by inexperienced men, and a priceless trinket to steal. Said trinket, Basso had informed him, was a silver sword. Probably jewels on the pommel, if Garrett were to guess. Whatever it looked like, Garrett had been promised that Basso’s client was willing to pay a great deal of money for it. The Bafford family were one of the richest of those around, despite the fact they’d lost a great deal of their fortune a few centuries back. Wealth, it seemed, had its way of collecting in certain places, and then _re_ collecting there later.

And it was _Garrett’s_ job to redistribute it. As quietly and as delicately as he knew how.

“Can’t stand the pits now,” the second guard was saying. “You don’t know what you’ve missed. They just don’t make bears like they used to…”

“Woah,” said the first, after a moment. “Killer bears. Woulda liked to have seen that…”

Garrett settled back on his heels, resting his forearms against the railing that overlooked the street below. He peered over, watching the movements of the guards with a careful, practised eye.

_Bears,_ he mused silently, wondering if they would fetch a price on the black market at all. If anything, he could see how difficult it would be to free the poor creatures. Bloodsports, Garrett had found at an early stage in life, were not to his taste. Bloodsports involving animals shipped into the City from far-off places, even less so.

Still, a loose bear would be a sight to behold. Especially if it caused enough chaos that Garrett could liberate a few chosen prizes from the pit’s offices.

Bear pits _did_ take a lot of money, after all.

He stowed the thought away for a later date. The bear pits would still be there for another day. Bafford was due to return in the morning. Garrett needed to complete this job tonight.

He’d spent the better part of a week scouting the outside of the manor and its guards. It only took one night to rob the place, after all, and he’d been pretty certain on Bafford’s schedule. Despite the City Watch’s inexperience with the grounds, they’d kept the place under close guard. The front door was a definite no-go area. Add that to the high walls that surmounted the property (most of which were slippery and not suitable for climbing at this time of year), Garrett had found limited options for his entering (and subsequent exit) of the manor and its grounds.

Bafford Manor, however, was old. In certain circumstances, age meant that buildings were more dangerous, more likely to cause harm and perhaps not worth the risk. Bafford Manor’s age was definitely _not_ a hindrance this time around. Simply put, it had been robbed before, and Basso had managed to scrounge up a very basic plan of the house and its surroundings.

It wasn’t great – parts were missing, either not drawn on or just eroded away over the years – but it was enough that Garrett was fairly confident of his way around inside. The old stone building meant that inside layouts couldn’t be changed very much, and recently the City had gone through a phase of restoring buildings to how they looked before (even if they weren’t allowed to venerate the gods said buildings used to be dedicated to).

In the distance, the clock tower chimed, the bells ringing out across the quiet air of the rooftops. Three in the morning. The witching hour, if you believed that sort of thing. Garrett was of the mind that while he didn’t necessarily adhere to superstition, he wasn’t going to interfere with anything of the sort, just for good measure. There was no such thing as being too careful, after all.

But, more importantly, the clock signalled another thing. Shift change.

Listening to the guards had given Garrett a lot of information. Much of it was useless – what they did on their downtime, what they _wanted_ to do on their downtime (or, rather, who) – but there had been certain gems among the garbage. One was that there was a certain guard who was _guaranteed_ to show up drunk tonight. And tonight he was guarding Garrett’s chosen entrance.

And so, Garrett was waiting for the guard – named Benson or something similar – to take his place. Thirty minutes or so should do it. He’d already spent the better part of a few hours here, thirty minutes wouldn’t do any more harm.

He stood up a little straighter, stretching his limbs to ensure he didn’t start cramping once inside the manor. It was cold, tonight, and while his fingers were slightly chilled it wasn’t too bad that it would cause him any problems. He’d taken some measures to aid that, anyway. He hadn’t spent his entire week just _watching_ the place, after all.

A clatter to his left drew his attention; he instinctively stepped back into the darker shadows of the balcony he was lingering on, drawing his cloak around him.

The figure that stood on the rooftop next to the balcony was dressed in a similar attire to Garrett’s. Cloak, hood, light leather garments. Male, if Garrett were to hazard a guess.

Apparently Bafford Manor had drawn the attention of someone else.

Garrett watched the other thief; he drew a bow and took aim at the building across the street. For a brief moment, Garrett considering letting him carry on with his task – it would distract the guards enough – but he’d put too much time and effort into his plans to fall at the final hurdle. If this _other_ thief was caught, then the guards would be on high alert. And there would undoubtedly be some unforeseen consequence that Garrett had not accounted for.

“Stop,” he said, voice quiet but carrying across the rooftop.

The other thief didn’t so much _shriek_ as he did _yelp,_ and Garrett winced, stepping quickly across the roof to wrap a hand around his mouth to shut him up.

“I’d rather you didn’t alert the guards to our presence,” he said quietly. The thief had dropped his arrow, Garrett noticed, the projectile rattling its way across the tiled roof.

The thief tried to speak, muffled against Garrett’s hand, and he struggled lightly.

“Be still,” Garrett warned him. “I’m not going to hurt you, but if you make any noise louder than I am right now we’re going to have bigger problems than each other. Understand?”

He felt a jerky nod against his shoulder; satisfied, he released the thief. The thief turned, quickly, drawing a dagger sheathed on his hip. Garrett raised an eyebrow, but didn’t move.

“What the _fuck_ you think you’re doing?” the thief hissed.

“Stopping you from getting yourself killed,” Garrett replied, calmly.

He often approached thieving with a certain sort of detachment. Everyone who got into the game knew the risks. But there was a difference between letting a thief make a mistake so he could better learn the craft, and letting a thief go to his death.

Bafford, in leaving his house, had apparently left those guarding it with instructions to kill any thief who made their way in. His sword _was_ worth rather a lot of money, and it wasn’t like the man hadn’t bragged about it to anyone who cared to listen. Garrett had seen two die in the past week, one trying to scale the wall, and one attempting to do what this newcomer was apparently also attempting.

The thief hadn’t spoken, but he’d not lowered his dagger either.

“What’s your name?” Garrett asked him, somehow falling back into a mentoring role even though he’d not had to do so for many years now.

_(Don’t think about that now. Eyes on the prize, not on the past.)_

“Sutter,” the thief replied, mulishly.

“You’re one of Reefer’s,” Garrett said, not a question, but the thief nodded in reply anyway. Reefer was a fence based in Cinderfall. The place wasn’t exactly renowned for its looting opportunities, but Reefer somehow managed to eke out a living there. He mostly sent his thieves to _other_ districts of the city and pawned their takings to people even further out than him. His thieves all dressed in a similar manner, though, dark cloaks made darker by coal dust, a mask strapped to the hip for traversing the smog-choked atmosphere of Cinderfall, and an overall appearance that suggested Sutter lived in a chimney.

“Did he tell you to rob this place?” Garrett asked. “Give you any information?”

“Told me it was empty,” Sutter sniffed. “The lord was away on business and nobody else’s thought to rob it.”

“Wrong,” Garrett said. “Two tried. One was cut down halfway up the wall and the other tried what you’re trying.”

“And?”

“See the towers, either side of the door?” Garrett gestured. “There are archers in there. You’ll be spotted immediately, and shot.”

Sutter frowned, peered at the towers in question. It took a few moments, but he saw it – the glint of a crossbow as the archer moved, checking the area below.

Garrett heard the muttered expletive, and smirked behind his mask.

“Reefer sent you here to die, even if he didn’t know it,” Garrett told him. “And he also sent you to a place earmarked by Basso. He won’t be happy that Reefer tried to make a move on him.”

“Why should I care about that?” Sutter asked, finally lowering the dagger. “I steal things, don’t get involved in fence politics.”

“Maybe not,” Garrett said, “but you should be aware. Be aware of _everything._ Did you check the codes for this place?”

Garrett knew the answer to that one, simply because the thieves’ code for the Bafford place had been etched into the railing he was leaning against. He’d not seen Sutter at _all_ in the past week, so he knew the other thief was woefully unprepared.

Sutter didn’t answer, so Garrett gestured to the railing in front of him.

“Tell me what you see,” he said, remembering running through a similar drill with someone else a _long_ time ago.

Sutter clambered onto the balcony, crouched and gazed at the markings etched into the wooden rail. The codes were new, etching still bright and fresh against the darkened wood. If you looked closely, you would be able to find other markings on the same railing, as thieves over the years updated the codes to denote the weaknesses, strengths, and potential gains from the property.

“Archers,” Sutter said, gesturing to an arrow-shaped mark. “Hired guards.” Two crossed swords. “Locked. Pro-Watch faction. Traps.” Sutter pointed to each symbol in turn.

“Put it all together and it’s a recipe for disaster in the wrong hands. And that’s only what we know from the outside,” Garrett said. “The inside might have more – might have _worse.”_

“You made your point, taffer,” Sutter snapped, standing upright and facing Garrett again. “So, what, I’m supposed to piss off back to Reefer and tell him that Basso’s prized blackhand is robbing the Bafford place?”

“I don’t care what you tell him,” Garrett replied. “Better you’re alive to do it.”

Sutter didn’t answer, cast a glance at the Bafford Manor again.

“Go,” Garrett told him. “You know the Mariani workshop? Word is he’s made some new pieces. I _was_ going to pass through on my way back tonight but if you don’t want to go to Reefer empty-handed then I suggest you visit there. Mariani hasn’t yet learned to guard his valuables well, so you’ll be fine.”

“If you’re expecting me to say thank you-“

“What I’m expecting is to read that both Bafford and Mariani lost valuable goods in tomorrow’s paper,” Garrett said, cutting him off, waving a hand. “ _Go.”_

Sutter, to his credit, actually followed Garrett’s pointing hand. He _did_ mutter something under his breath, but Garrett chose to let it slide in favour of moving unhindered tonight. The Mariani goods were a loss, sure, but he would more than make up for it with the acquisition of the sword tonight. Basso hadn’t told him the exact figure his client had promised, but it was somewhere in the region of _a lot._ Perhaps a lot more than the sword was worth.

Garrett turned the other way, hopping over the railing and heading toward the end of the street, wondering _where_ in his life he’d become so… paternal. He never used to bother with giving other thieves advice, but recently he’d become more _active_ in his watch of the younger generation of thieves. He’d used the codes his entire life, but relied on other people’s work. Nowadays he made sure he carried a small piece of chalk with him, to update any codes he came across, if needs be. And while he didn’t normally offer any _spoken_ advice like he’d done with Sutter, even Basso had noticed the newfound attention Garrett paid to the others in their line of work.

If Basso asked, Garrett never gave him a reason as for his change in behaviour.

He was pretty certain of the reason, though.

Five years ago, Garrett had learned that _caring_ wasn’t the most fatal flaw someone could have. Perhaps, conversely, _apathy_ was. His detachment from affairs didn’t help anyone, and least of all himself.

_If Corvo could see you now,_ he thought to himself, swiftly descending from a rooftop to a darkened alley near to the manor.

Sometimes, if Garrett had a quiet moment to himself, he would stop and reflect on what happened all those years ago. Pulled into a world he didn’t know existed, set on the path to help restore an empire, and all to gain the last remaining shard of the Primal stone. Sometimes he would briefly wonder if it had all been a dream, a hallucination borne from inhaling too many paint fumes and an overtaxed mind.

But then he would catch sight of the scar carved into his left shoulder, left there by the sword of a supernaturally enhanced assassin. He would see the painting of the boy-but-a-god, hanging in the Clock Tower. He’d see the drawing made by a girl who became an empress, stuck to the wall. A medal, stowed in a display case.

He’d see the small statuette of a whale, where one of its gemstone eyes glowed with a hue that was not natural to the world.

And he would _remember_ Dunwall. He would remember Corvo, Emily, Samuel, and _everyone_ who he’d found himself suddenly allied with.

He would never say he missed them. But-

There were times he wished for the quiet companionship of his friend.

But that was time past. Years past. And while he might miss Corvo he understood very well that neither of them would exist happily in the other’s home for a long time. They were both on opposing sides of the line between lawful and unlawful. Corvo would bend laws, break them if need be, but he didn’t have the grey morality of Garrett, the compunction to _stay_ on the wrong side of the law.

And Corvo certainly wouldn’t approve of what Garrett was doing tonight.

He slipped out from the alley, making his way up the street, keeping a careful eye and ear to his surroundings. He hoped his information on the guard was correct, otherwise he was definitely going to have to improvise his way in. His week-long scout would be for nothing.

Thankfully, his chosen entrance was guarded by a rambling, bouncing man who was clearly already several drinks in. Garrett waited for several minutes, just in case a guard was patrolling, before slipping past the guard. He gently placed a bottle next to the small pile that lay there, ale acquired earlier in the day for this very purpose, while simultaneously taking a key looped onto Benson’s belt.

His aim was the door immediately behind Benson; he quickly unlocked it and slipped through, lest his luck suddenly change. Inside, he took a moment to breathe, gazing down at the dark hole that lead to his path into Bafford Manor.

Bafford Manor was old. The map Garrett had been provided revealed that it had its own supply of water, and a well next to it. The Watch had known about it; they’d stationed a guard on the door (a drunk one) and there was bound to be someone watching the entrance inside the Manor, but in all it was a far safer route than trying the front door, or the outside.

It was also the dead of winter, and in order to reach Bafford Manor proper, Garrett would have to traverse several feet of deep, ice-cold water.

But he’d not spent his past week simply _watching_ the Bafford place.

He was faced with a wellshaft; it was cold, slippery, crumbled and rusted. He could see why the Watch had only put one guard on it. If Garrett had been a lesser thief, he probably would have called it quits there and then.

But he wasn’t.

So, he gripped the unsteady metal of the ladder, wincing at the creak it made as the stonework shifted. Below him, he could hear the sound of running water, but he wasn’t concerned as of yet. He’d been in worse places. He paused, listening for anything untoward outside, before slowly making his way down.

The well was deep; the stonework chilled his bones and the rusted metal of the ladder flaked away under his hands, but he kept moving.

Halfway down, his eyes caught a mark carved into the side of the well; not quite a bright white but certainly brighter than the stone around it. A code mark: _Likely to flood_. He’d not seen it the night before, but there was nothing he could do about it now. It had been fairly dry for the past few days, but Garrett knew the winter’s first snowfall wasn’t far off.

Eventually, he reached the bottom, and held on with a single hand to lean out into the tunnel below. The water was deep, and he knew that if he spent too long down here it would cause him a lot of problems in the future.

The tunnel was dimly lit, light from the street above filtering down through cracked stonework and aged grates. Combined with the water, it made dizzying patterns on the ceiling above, but Garrett could see the way forward was clear.

He drew in a steadying breath in a futile attempt to prepare himself, before he lowered himself into the water.

It was cold; deep winter, bone-breaking cold. But that was the risk he’d chosen to take. He took another moment to steady himself, grasped a rope he’d tied to the bottom of the ladder the day before, and pushed away from the wall.

The path forward was clear, a straight shot all the way to Bafford Manor’s cellar. Garrett also had the advantage of the current, but he swam quickly, wanting to get out of the cold as soon as possible.

Five years ago, a wellshaft such as this would have been an unviable route for Garrett to take. Five years ago, Garrett had found himself in a sewer, having to traverse its waters to reach safety. And he’d let his fear get the better of him, let his past come back to haunt him.

When he’d been returned to the City, he’d decided _no more._

It had taken a long time, but Garrett had slowly, eventually, taught himself to swim. True, he still avoided certain parts of the river, and he swam out of necessity rather than any _desire_ to get into the water. But he’d proved to himself that while some parts of his life – and his past – were beyond his control, _this_ most definitely was not.

_He_ called it an achievement. He suspected Corvo – and hell, _Samuel –_ would call it one too.

He followed the path of the well, gripping onto the rope, before finally coming to a ledge set into the stonework. He hauled himself up, gave himself a moment to shiver, before reaching down and grasping onto his rope again. Here, it went straight down, connected to a bag that rested on the well tunnel’s floor.

He hauled it to the surface, revealing a bag that had been submerged at the bottom of the well for a day now.

In truth, it was three bags – sealskin, sailor’s and smuggler’s ware alike, designed to keep water out and goods inside dry. Garrett had managed to procure a few, and had stuffed one with items he would need for the heist tonight, so that he didn’t have to carry it all the way through the well and risk being too weighed down. He’d then put it inside the other two (he really didn’t want to leave it to chance) and floated it down the well the day before.

(That had been a risky venture. He’d had to gauge it partially by the plans of the well he’d manage to scrounge, and partially by luck. He’d managed to get it dead on.)

Inside the bag were several things. One, a wooden bow. He hadn’t trusted to leave his _good_ bow inside the bag, and wood was easier to treat and protect than metal. There were also several arrows, those he thought he’d need for the traversal of the Manor; Choke, Flash and Rope among them. The Claw and its length of rope were fished out next.

There was also a spare set of clothes, his good leathers, and a towel.

Unconcerned with his surroundings, he quickly stripped, drying himself as best he could before dressing in a similarly quick manner. Despite the brief relief the towel gave him, it was still bitterly cold inside the wellshaft, and he wanted to be out of there as soon as possible.

He left the wet clothes draped across the stonework. He wasn’t certain if they would dry while he was in the Manor, but they would last enough to get him back to the street on his way out.

The clothing and equipment was cold from its day in the depths of the well, but it was better than being _wet_ and cold. He rubbed his hands together, revitalising the feeling in his fingers, before reapplying the kohl around his eyes.

Satisfied that this was the best he was going to get himself, he stepped away from the edge of the water, to the crumbling stone that signalled the edge of Bafford Manor’s cellar.

It looked as though there was once a large hole in the side of the cellar; proximity to the well causing the masonry to crumble. Yet, at somepoint, it had been repaired, leaving only a tiny crack for him to slip through.

It took a few minutes’ careful movement, but Garrett was able to worm his way into the cellar.

It was warmer here, thankfully, but not by much. Garrett found himself amidst a pile of barrels and bottles, and the underlying stench of wine and beer permeated it all. He carefully peered around, looking for both guards and any bottles worth placing by his exit, but he couldn’t see anything.

He moved quickly, quietly, in his element once more. No matter how much his time in Dunwall had changed him, it was _this_ that Garrett was meant for. A strange thing, to find happiness by the skin of one’s teeth, but it suited Garrett just fine.

His first goal was to go _up._ He had no indication of where Bafford’s prized sword would be, but generally nobles kept their prized possessions on higher floors, away from servants and near to their bedside. Basso’s map had shown some sort of ceremony room on the second floor of the manor. That was Garrett’s goal. He just needed to find some stairs.

It took him a while to navigate the cellar, but he eventually found a set of stone stairs that led upwards. He moved quickly, aware that he had nowhere to hide if any servant (or guard) decided to head down to fetch some wine.

The stairs opened out into an area that looked as though it belonged to a servant’s quarters – run-down wood and flagstone that wouldn’t be fit for the well-to-do nobles of the City. He needed to find the front of house, in order to find the other set of stairs that would take him to the room he suspected the sword was in.

He’d not seen anybody yet, but if this was the servant’s area then they were likely to either be asleep or in the kitchen. He knew that some would have to rise soon, to prepare for the Lord’s imminent return. The guards were probably patrolling the main side of the house, if they were at all. They were coming to the end of their week’s tenure; prone to be complacent, lazy.

He headed to the more inhabited area of the Manor, feet treading lightly on the stone floor. It was here that he came to his first locked door, but it was soon opened through the use of his picks.

He paused after opening the door. He could hear the distant murmur of conversation from down the corridor; guard chatter once again. Part of it settled his nerves somewhat, the lack of opposition from the basement to where he was now had been unexpected. The servants might all be in bed but he’d expected to see at least _one_ guard on this side of the Manor.

Bafford Manor was large, though. Maybe the Watch could only afford to post people on the outer doors to give the impression of it being under heavy guard. Bafford had also probably taken some of his staff with him, wherever he’d gone.

The plans he’d scrounged hadn’t indicated any stairs, but he managed to find a set near an aged tapestry that looked as though it was once purple but was now grey. Bafford probably kept it out of sentiment rather than because it was worth anything. The Baffords had been rich and influential, once, but the family’s constant desire to focus on its past meant that they’d never made it far in political circles. The Barons, old and new, focused on _progress_ rather than restoration of the past.

The Northcrests had certainly made sure that the past stayed exactly where it was. The Baron to follow after, of the Uncia family, had done nothing quite as _drastic_ as the Northcrest dynasty, but it was clear they certainly weren’t going to restore the Old Gods.

The City hadn’t quite _stagnated_ under the Uncia dynasty, but it had certainly stopped moving.

Garrett, on the one hand, was pleased for the lack of political upheaval. It made his job easier in that there weren’t multitudes of guards on the streets enforcing a curfew, and those that _were_ out there were more concerned with when their shift ended than anything else.

The stairs lead into another empty corridor, but Garrett could hear the sounds of a patrolling guard to his immediate right. He went left, coming to another door that was unlocked, and found himself inside a library.

The shelves looked old, as old as the Manor itself. Garrett briefly wondered if Bafford had ever read any of the books – had ever picked one up off the shelf it resided on. He wouldn’t be surprised if it crumbled to dust. Bafford Manor was clinging on to its past opulence in the vain hope it could regain it somehow. Garrett was here to prove that it would not, at least not for a long while.

He paused inside the library, eyeing a fireplace that looked as though it hadn’t been lit for a week, before surmising that without the lord in residence there was no need for anyone to light the fire in here. Garrett doubted that Bafford himself came in here often anyway, judging by the way the ornaments and tables looked _too_ perfect.

The other side of the library opened out into another corridor. Empty, once more.

If Garrett weren’t so close to his goal he might have let that detail niggle him a little more.

He moved down the corridor, coming to a large, ornate archway that promised opulence within.

Inside, it wasn’t quite the ceremony room that Garrett was expecting. It was a _throne room._ A carved, bright white chair perched on a pedestal in the centre, gleaming in the light of the moon that streamed in from the outside. Garrett could tell it had been sat in often before, and he took a moment to picture Bafford himself lounging there as though he were in actuality the Baron, ruling over the City.

No wonder the family had never made it far up the political ladder.

The sword was hanging on the wall above the chair itself; Garrett took a moment to glance around him, checking for any guards who might be on their way, but there was still nothing.

He shivered, a cold draught whistling in from the corridor, as he spotted a trap on the sword’s mount. Probably arrow-based, ready to fire at anyone who would lift the sword without disarming the mechanism first. His suspicion was confirmed upon spotting three holes in the wall to his right, directly in line with where a person would have to stand to lift the sword.

It took a minute’s careful search, but he found the trap’s mechanics hidden underneath the throne’s pedestal itself; he severed it, before standing once more.

He gently removed the sword, turning it briefly to examine it. Polished silver, rubies and emeralds in the pommel, which was wrapped with dark leather. A ceremonial sword, rather than a practical one, but worth an extremely high amount of coin.

He gazed at it for a moment more, before turning-

_“Garrett,”_ a voice said – _two voices –_ from inside his mind. One he’d not heard in a long time, the other he’d never heard at all.

Garrett paused, frowned. There was no way. The Eye had been silent in the five years since his return from Dunwall. He hadn’t _needed_ it. Why-

The voices spoke again.

_“She’s coming to take it all from you.”_

Garrett didn’t have a chance to ask _who,_ or do _anything._ Several other things happened at once.

It was like the entire foundation of the building was falling apart. The floor rumbled under Garrett’s feet, the lights flickered in their mounts, and the building _groaned._

The windows shattered, the fireplace spat out coal dust and smoke and embers and the _door-_

Vines tangled themselves through the gaps, through the door, the windows, the stonework, _everywhere-_

_What?_

A vine rocketed towards him; he dodged, slashed ineffectually with the sword. Three more came. Five more. Twelve more.

He couldn’t move, couldn’t see, couldn’t _breathe._ Could only hear his panicked breathing, the creaks and hisses of the vines, the barely-there screech of _something else_ under it all.

They wrapped around him. He dropped the sword, tried to pull them off, but they held fast, tighter around his chest, arms, neck, _eyes-_

And then the vine around his neck tightened further, and there was nothing.

Darkness. Silence.

* * *

 

It was bad.

Garrett had planned for many eventualities tonight. He’d spent a week memorising outer guard patrols, as well as noting the movement of anyone he could see through the windows of the manor. He’d brought an extra bottle of ale for Benson, to ensure he was well and truly drunk by the time Garrett made his escape. He’d sunk most of his supplies into the bottom of a wellshaft to simply ensure he was prepared inside the mansion.

Funnily enough, _vines coming from nowhere_ was not one of the eventualities he’d planned for.

He awoke to a cold chill and the sound of dripping water. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear a low, mournful sound, like a dying animal. He slowly realised that _no,_ it wasn’t an animal, but a human, perhaps inches away from death or simply wishing for it.

His head ached, and his mouth was dry. Slowly, he managed to open his eyes, take stock of what kind of situation he was in.

Well.

Garrett had been to prison before. He’d made enough mistakes in the past to end up in a lockup or two. He knew what Pavelock Prison looked like. He’d also been inside the Baron’s Keep. He’d _heard_ of the old Cragscleft prison, built on top of an old mine, but it had long ago fallen into disuse and ruin, too far out of the City to be any good.

This place was none of these, which left Garrett with only one viable option as to his whereabouts.

He was in the Cradle.

The Cradle had once been an orphanage, or an asylum, or _something._ Ever since Baron Northcrest had proscribed the Old Gods, the once-abandoned building had been retrofitted into a new prison. Old, supposedly haunted areas were simply walled off, and crumbling foundations were repaired. The building’s history simply added another element of _fear,_ a deterrent to stop people committing crimes that would result in them being incarcerated there.

The general rule of the thieving community was that if you ended up in the Cradle, there was no hope for you. A building that even the _Watch_ feared to patrol, it was generally where the worst criminals were placed, murderers and rapists and those who committed the highest treasons.

A fair few Graven had ended up here.

The Cradle had no rules, no qualms about committing atrocities in the name of City justice. It was a place that _breathed_ misery, hundreds of years of sorrow and history all piling up to make- _this._

_From the Cradle to your grave_ , as the saying went.

Garrett swallowed, thickly. He couldn’t see, but he could most definitely feel some damage to his neck; raised welts from where he’d been practically strangled beforehand.

It was then that he truly took stock of the _shit_ he was in.

He was positioned in the centre of the room. Stripped to the waist, arms chained above him, pulling painfully on his shoulders. His feet were bare, skimming the stone floor, and he could already feel the cold leeching into his bones.

He had no idea how long he’d been here. There was a window immediately to his right, high on the wall; it was dark out, but in the middle of winter it was _always_ dark. A grey stone wall was in front of him, damp and covered in slime. He couldn’t see a door, and surmised it was behind him. He wasn’t going to bother to look, it would be a waste of energy.

He drew in a breath, exhaling it slowly, watching it mist in the cold air of the cell. He looked up, examining the manacles encased around his wrists. He’d have a hard time getting out of them with both hands intact. His ankles were similarly chained, the weight of the metal pulling his body uncomfortably.

Somewhere else in the building, he heard a scream. He couldn’t tell what made the sound. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.

He needed to get out of here, and fast.

He twisted slightly, trying to get a better look at the chains that secured him to the ceiling. As far as he could tell, his wrists were fastened to long length of chain that passed over a hook in the ceiling. The chain itself was then attached to the wall behind him, but he had no way of reaching it properly without causing himself some serious damage.

In theory, he could dislocate a thumb and worm his hand out of one of the manacles, but that would only free _one_ hand. Garrett’s profession relied on his hands being useful, he wasn’t going to damage one without being certain he could _actually_ free the other. He couldn’t see the chain very well, but he suspected it was locked onto the wall somehow, rather than just hanging there for him to easily tamper with.

His next best bet was to try and break the chain, or whatever it was hooked into. The Cradle was _old,_ after all. But, before he could consider doing anything of the sort, the door behind him opened.

He froze, limbs falling back into an already-painful position, as the room echoed with a sound he knew all-too-well.

_Clunk. Clunk. Clunk._

_“Garrett,”_ drawled the Thief-Taker General, the tone of his voice somewhere between glee and fury. “What a _pleasure_ it is to have you here.”

Garrett didn’t answer, kept his gaze fixed on the wall ahead. The General didn’t seem to care, for he continued.

“I must say, we almost thought you wouldn’t go for the bait. Lord Bafford’s prized silver sword – surely an opportunity too good for someone like you to pass up on.”

_We?_ Garrett repeated to himself, as the General prattled on.

Something else was clearly involved with his capture. But there was no way that the General would possibly be involved in the less-than-natural. The Watch as a rule were most certainly _not_ followers of the Old Gods, and their superstitions were entirely off-limits.

But _this?_ This was something else entirely. And as for the source, Garrett wasn’t going to discount the notion that it was involved with a certain _other place._

The Eye had spoken to him. It hadn’t spoken since he’d last been in Dunwall. He’d not needed it here, not in the place where he knew everything (or at least everything he cared to).

He was drawn out of his thoughts by the sudden motion of a hand coming towards his face. The General had a strong backhand, Garrett discovered. Presumably he’d noticed Garrett had stopped listening.

“Your insolence is only part of your undoing,” the General said, his backhand followed by his fist plunging into Garrett’s lower stomach, causing him to wheeze out air. “But now I have you, I will certainly make sure that _I_ have the biggest hand in it.”

He’d expected this, knew it was inevitable after the times he had evaded or even _humiliated_ the General.

So he endured the blows that were rained upon him, gritting his teeth and trying to keep still, even if he wanted to draw away in revulsion. He could practically _taste_ the grease that permeated the air around the General.

“You give yourself credit where you should not,” a new voice said, from behind Garrett. Garrett managed to hide his relief as the General stopped; his ribs throbbed and drawing in breath was difficult right now.

He didn’t bother to turn as the new person entered the room, and soon enough they moved around Garrett’s back to face him.

Garrett was largely unconcerned with the General. He knew that no matter how much hate the man held for Garrett, and all the threats he made, his desire for _order_ and the upholding of the law would win out. And eventually, he would slip up and make a mistake.

The person who came to stand in front of Garrett was not that sort of person. She _exuded_ danger and control from every fibre of her being.

She was tall, pale-skinned, had her hair cut short. Her clothing looked as though it were of fine-make, but its tailoring was unfamiliar. It almost looked- _preserved,_ as though it had been altered in some way that it would never age or change or fall away. The explanation, perhaps, came from the most unsettling part of this new person.

Her clothes were adorned with roses; red, black, white. But they were also wrapped in vines, as was her _skin._ Garrett could see a faint green trace around her neck, as well as the tendrils wrapped around her forearms.

Garrett had never met a witch before, or any of those who belonged to one of the old religions of the City. But that would the category he would place this woman into, something that was definitely _not-human_ on a certain level.

There was something there that turned his stomach, a feeling he would never be able to name. Something _wrong_ about her.

She appraised Garrett; he held her gaze evenly, not giving in to the trickle of fear that was tracing its way down his spine.

“For somebody who’s apparently given you so much trouble, General,” she said, “he seems rather… _small._ He certainly doesn’t seem worth all the effort you forced me to expend upon capturing him.”

“Trust me, Lady Delilah,” said the General, firmly, his hand flexing around his cane, “he’s worth every ounce of it.”

Garrett couldn’t stop the snort of derision that escaped him, chains rattling as his body shook with laughter.

“Couldn’t even catch me yourself, General?” he asked. “You had to pass off the challenge to someone else?”

“It _worked,_ didn’t it?” was the reply, and Garrett fell silent again.

He turned his gaze to the woman – _Delilah._

“You were the client,” he said. “You set up the entire heist.”

“Indeed,” Delilah replied. “Smart thing, aren’t you?”

“The General doesn’t have the brains to think up something as elaborate,” Garrett said, earning himself another punch in the stomach. He wheezed, breathless laughter rising up again.

“ _General,”_ he said, figuring that now he’d broken his silence he might as well continue – _not like the situation can get worse, after all –_ “Surely what you’re doing here breaks several laws.”

“We’re in the Cradle, _rat._ There are no laws.”

Garrett drew in a breath, turned to Delilah again.

“What exactly has our dear General here promised _you,_ then?” he asked. “I doubt you work for free.”

There was a moment where Garrett wasn’t certain whether she’d answer; something in her gaze told Garrett she was considering not to, but probably thought he wouldn’t be worth worrying over anyway.

“Loyalty,” she said.

“Cheap, worthless,” Garrett replied. “And certainly not worth your time. There’s something more.”

There was always something more. Nobody did anything simply out of the goodness of their hearts, and Garrett knew that there were certainly other ways to garner a person’s loyalty. What Delilah had done to ensure Garrett’s capture spoke of measures _beyond_ simple loyalty.

No, it spoke of something that involved _more._ And Garrett, although he would never admit it, was afraid as to what that _more_ was.

He was met with silence; the General looked to Delilah, and Delilah looked at Garrett in turn.

“You _are_ perceptive, aren’t you?” she asked, stepping closer to Garrett. He found he was more repulsed by _her_ than the General, as a sudden _stench_ of rotting plant matter hit his senses.

There was something very, _very,_ wrong with Delilah.

She reached out, gripping his chin with her hand and peering at his face.

Or perhaps, more accurately, his right _eye._

He flinched, jerked away, turned his head to the side. She let him go, a gentle laugh rising from her throat.

“Something to hide, thief?” she asked him. “Perhaps I have a way to _reveal_ that.”

Garrett didn’t have a chance to try and figure out what that meant. Delilah leaned forward again, forced him to turn and face her, and-

Suddenly she was _there,_ inside his mind, vines twisting and clawing and tearing and- _pain, burning, fear-_

He felt his body seize, but it was detached, distant. There was only _her_ and the searing, _ripping_ pain of her burrowing into his mind.

_-He saw the Clock Tower, for the first time, standing proud over Stonemarket-_

_-Saw the way the merchants would hide their money in their pockets, easy to steal later-_

_-The Northcrest Manor, the ceremony room, and Erin-_

_-No, no, no, not that. Not that-_

_-The stone, the shards, the Primal-_

_-Stop-_

He was screaming, he realised. Could hear the General laughing, _enjoying_ his pain, as he yelled and _begged_ her to stop.

_-Pushing, further in, searching-_

_-No, stop stop stopstopstop-_

_-Vines curling, twisting, constricting-_

And then something inside him broke, _shattered._ His scream turned into a _roar,_ and he _pushed back,_ body arcing as his mind seared with something else, bright blue and powerful and forcing Delilah out.

And he _saw-_

_-A crumbling ruin in a swamp, roses and bones everywhere-_

_-A man in a dark blue coat and a golden mask-_

_-Another mask, a dark red coat and a voice that sounded like it had been dragged over gravel-_

_-A boy, standing alone in a bright blue sea, eyes as black as obsidian-_

It broke again, too much, mind screaming for release; Garrett kept pushing, _hurled_ the vines from his mind in a bright blue wave.

And then everything was silent.

His skin tingled with a somewhat-familiar energy. His breath was ragged, harsh. His ribs ached, his body shook with tremors and his mind was not so much as frayed as it was _ripped apart._ He forced his head up, cracked open his eyes.

The Cradle was silent. Whatever had happened, whatever he’d _done,_ had shook the entire building to its foundation. The distant sounds of the other prisoners had halted, and it felt like the entire building was holding its breath, waiting to see what would happen next.

Dust trickled from the ceiling, as Garrett saw both Delilah and the General had been hurled into the wall in front of him.

“What-“ he managed, in a half-broken voice, through heavy breaths.

_What the fuck was that?_ he thought.

He’d seen-

He’d seen his life, or parts of it. Delilah had been looking for something, looking for- _what?_

And then he’d pushed back, and seen-

Delilah was the first to rise. Her face was unreadable, but it gave Garrett no small amount of satisfaction to see her perfected image was now skewed, somewhat. She was covered in dust and blood trickled from her nose. She didn’t speak, was breathing hard, too.

The General rose as well, and apparently felt the appropriate reaction to the events that had just occurred was to sink his fist into Garrett’s lower ribcage again.

“What did you _do-“_ he began, drawing back again, but Delilah held him back.

And _Garrett,_ he turned his gaze onto Delilah again, and _looked,_ using the gift provided by the Eye.

And he saw it. Glowing tendrils of blue and green swirling around her body, centred on her left hand, even if the skin there bore no physical mark.

And like that, it all clicked into place.

_Marked._

“What _did_ you do?” Delilah asked, voice calm even if her demeanour betrayed otherwise. “What _are_ you?”

Garrett snorted, breath wheezing as let his head fall again.

“Didn’t the Outsider tell you?” he drawled, noting how her breath caught upon his mention of the name. “This place does not belong to his chosen. It _belongs_ to the Primal.”

He probably shouldn’t have felt so satisfied by the stunned silence he was met with. He lifted his head, meeting Delilah’s gaze, and grinned meanly.

“How-“ Delilah’s tone was one of wonder, fear, and _something else_ mixed together. “How could you _possibly_ know that name?”

Garrett didn’t answer, looking away.

Silence fell, and after a minute Delilah turned and walked past Garrett, out of the door.

_“General!”_ she called, from the corridor. Garrett didn’t bother to hide his amusement as the General followed her voice immediately. So much for a partnership.

The door closed, and Garrett exhaled, trying to calm the tremors running through his body, mind slowly turning over what he’d seen when he’d pushed back.

He’d seen _Delilah’s_ mind.

A ruin, surrounded by marsh and water. Nowhere in the City looked like that. And then there had been a man in a golden mask-

_Overseer,_ his mind supplied. _Sent to root out the Outsider and his followers._

He focused on the last images he’d seen. A man in a dark red coat, a voice roughened by years of hardship – _familiar –_

_“He still feels deeply about the Empress’ death, and my involvement in it,”_ a voice in his memory whispered.

“So does Daud,” Garrett murmured aloud, echoing words whispered to him years ago. “A witch now resides in the Void because of it.”

But _what_ did Daud do?

He frowned, turning his head to look out of the window, as if something out there could provide inspiration. He could just about see a ruin of somekind in the distance – the old Cathedral. The Cradle was in the Old Quarter, he recalled.

Delilah had been looking for something in _his_ mind. She’d focused on Northcrest, and the Primal, but he’d managed to throw her out before she’d discovered where he’d secreted the main part of the stone.

Looking at the ruined Cathedral now, Garrett knew that whatever it was Delilah had planned for the stone, it probably wasn’t going to be good.

The thing that unsettled him most was that she’d not even _asked_ him. She’d just… taken. Or tried to.

Garrett knew – or at the very least suspected – that the Primal was more powerful than the gifts the Outsider gave his Marked. Perhaps it was a by-product, a downside of sorts. Nothing in this world (or any, for that matter) came for free.

But to finally confirm it, to _use_ such a force, unsettled Garrett more than ever.

He wasn’t sure if he could command it. Call on it at will, as the Marked could. It had felt more like-

_Like what?_

Garrett liked to be in control. He liked to be prepared for every eventuality, to have a plan for any situation. The Primal was like throwing a spanner in the works, if the spanner was large and exploded with a supernatural force that decimated everything around it. While it was certainly _useful_ in repelling other supernatural forces, if Garrett couldn’t control it, then-

Then it was just as dangerous as Delilah’s abilities. Perhaps more so.

He shifted, manacles digging painfully into his wrists, turning his gaze back to the stone wall in front of him. He could feel blood running down his forearm, presumably where the skin had already been rubbed raw.

Delilah came from the other side of the Void. From Dunwall, or somewhere near it. And she’d fallen foul of Daud somehow – _before_ he and Corvo had encountered the man in the Flooded District.

He remembered being tied to a pillar, wounded in the leg and shoulder, listening to an assassin report to Daud. He’d mentioned a manor, a coven of witches, and-

_“She was not the one who told you of Delilah’s plans for the Kaldwin girl,”_ the assassin had said.

_Emily._

“What were you going to do to her?” Garrett said to the wall. “What could you possibly want with Emily Kaldwin?”

A groan echoed through the building, as if the Cradle were trying to answer his question. Garrett had heard the stories about the place, about the way it would draw you in and make sure you never left. Even in death, you would remain.

Garrett pushed the thoughts from his mind.

He had bigger problems to figure out.

When he’d met Daud, it had been as an enemy. Sort of. Garrett hadn’t really carried much feeling towards the man in either direction, but his alliance with Corvo had put him at odds with the assassin. And truly, Garrett disliked assassins. For all the problems they sought to solve – or were at least _paid_ to solve – many more generally arose from it.

But Daud had seen that, in the end. Had seen that this last contract was his undoing. And then he’d- what? Sought to protect the line of Empress Jessamine Kaldwin?

_How?_

And, additionally, how could he have even _known?_

_Perhaps,_ he mused inwardly, _someone else was concerned with the fate of Emily Kaldwin._

The Outsider portrayed himself as a being of complete, distant apathy. He only marked those who interested him. But perhaps, after a while, he _lost_ interest. Granny Rags had been Marked, but she’d seemed like a woman who’d not spoken with the Outsider in a long, long time.

There was nothing to say that the Outsider hadn’t given Daud a nudge in the right direction, if only to chain together events that would be an interesting show for him.

Or maybe Delilah’s plan for Emily had been something that even the aloof and indifferent god could not ignore. Could not _condone._

Garrett shivered, unsure as to whether it was the cold or something else that caused him to do so. He flexed his fingers, noting that he was slowly but surely losing the feeling in them, trying to pull his scattered thoughts together.

He was tired, and probably needed rest from _whatever_ had happened before. But not until he at least figured out part of what was going on.

Delilah had tried to do something with Emily. What, Garrett would probably never find out. Daud, reeling in the guilt from his assassination of Jessamine, had sought to stop it.

And _apparently_ had succeeded.

And then he’d not spoken a word of it. To him, _or_ to Corvo, even when Corvo had held the man’s life in his hands. Garrett supposed to he’d thought that it would not matter, would seem like a cheap bargaining tactic to try and save his own skin.

There was something admirable in that, Garrett supposed.

But what had become of Delilah?

Garrett had seen only a moment. A fight, or something, between Daud and Delilah. He’d also seen the Outsider, and the bright blue expanse of the Void.

Daud had found a way to keep her imprisoned there, somehow. Had stopped whatever plan she’d devised.

But Delilah must have escaped, and instead of finding herself back in Dunwall, she’d found herself _here,_ on this side of the Void.

And she would have learned that there was no Outsider here, no Marked, no runes or shrines.

There was just the Primal.

* * *

 

The sound of the door unlocking woke him, but he didn’t move. If anything, he made an effort _not_ to move, not to reveal that he was aware of people coming for him again.

He wasn’t sure how long it had been. After his initial conversation with Delilah and the General, neither of them had returned. He’d hung for a long time in the cell, until his wrists were bleeding freely and his shoulders were screaming in pain.

And then had come the visits. They had been irregular, impossible to time and prepare for, and had him on edge every time he heard footsteps pass by his cell. Sometimes they came in. And when they did, it was with some new punishment.

They’d taken him down after his last one. Currently, he was lying facing the door, back pressed into the wall. A steady stream of ice-cold water trickled down it; he was using it in an attempt to cool the searing, burning welts now incised into his back.

He’d only endured the whip in silence for the first five lashes. He’d passed out somewhere in the high twenties, and awoken to find himself on the floor of an empty cell. A metal cup of water had been placed by the wall, joined by a hunk of bread that was more mould than actual bread.

This was only the second time he’d been fed during his stay. His stomach was in a constant state of cramp, but he knew that they only fed him this much to keep him alive.

_Why_ they were keeping him alive was another question. Garrett had little doubt that the General would be equally pleased to see Garrett simply starve to death in this cell.

Whatever the case may be, he’d eaten what he could, and then pressed himself into the wall to try and ease the pain.

His arms were wrapped around his chest in a vain attempt to keep himself warm, but the chilled winter air had truly seeped into his bones by now.

He wasn’t sure if he would be able to stand on his own any more.

In any case, he didn’t have to. Two leather-clad watch guards crossed the room and hauled him upright by his upper arms. They were watched by a third, carrying a crossbow and an uncaring eye. For a moment he thought they were going to fix his chains to the ceiling again. But no, instead they held him in the centre of the room, half-upright-and-

_Waiting?_

Garrett closed his eyes, too exhausted to bother lifting his head and figure out what the next trial was.

He knew something bigger was coming. Could taste it, the palpable tension and expectation in the air. Could _feel_ it in the jittering of the guard on his right.

The scent hit his nostrils like a wave; acrid and harsh and making him flinch involuntarily. The guards gripped him tighter, fingers digging painfully in to the flesh of his upper arm, as he attempted to move. He lifted his head, staring with wide eyes at the open door. The guard with the crossbow smirked as Garrett’s face twisted, hoping for all his life’s worth that he was wrong.

_No, please no-_

Two more guards stepped into the room, carrying a heavy, ironware pot between them. The scent was stronger, lodging in the back of Garrett’s throat, as the pot was placed on the floor.

Tar.

Jet-black, slowly bubbling, and bringing with it a thousand memories. He’d seen that pot before, _witnessed-_

But never thought that, that he-

_Clunk. Clunk. Clunk._

“Garrett,” the General said, coming to a stop by the door, leaning against its frame. “How’s your stay been?” he asked, idly twirling his cane. “Comfortable? We gave you the Cradle’s best, after all.”

Garrett didn’t respond, dragged his gaze away from the tar to meet the General’s eyes. After a moment, the General looked away; Garrett’s exhausted mind flickered briefly in triumph.

“Lady Delilah,” the General began, fixing one of his gloves, “is keeping you for a very specific purpose. She was very clear that you needed to be kept in a certain… _condition.”_

Garrett snorted weakly, although his stomach twisted at the words. Delilah hadn’t come back, presumably because she was uncertain of what Garrett could do if she attempted to… invade, again. But the General was clearly still acting under her orders.

_What_ she wanted was another question entirely, but he’d long ago guessed that the beatings and other forms of torture was part of a plan to try and weaken him enough that he _couldn’t_ fight back.

“However,” the General continued, “in this city there are certain protocols, especially when it comes to thieves. I trust you are familiar with the act of blackhanding? So many of your… _ilk_ have experienced this, after all.”

Garrett swallowed, throat suddenly dry, eyeing the pot of tar again.

“Now, if I had _my_ way I’d throw you in this thing head first and drown you in it. But-“ the General sniffed, sounding almost put out, “the Lady was very clear in her instructions. So, tradition shall have to stand. Guards! The right, if you please.”

The last part was addressed to those holding him, and Garrett found himself hauled forward suddenly. Adrenalin and fear kicked in; his bare feet lashed out, attempting to dig themselves in to the stonework. He pulled back, tried to free himself from the guards’ grip, but they were too strong.

He was too weak.

The General was laughing again, expression resembling a cat that had finally caught the mouse that had been plaguing it for years; somewhere between maniacal hate and satisfaction.

“Come now, Garrett,” he said cheerfully, “it’ll be just like taking a hot bath on a winter’s day.”

(Some slightly hysterical, detached part of Garrett’s brain noted that the room had gotten warmer since they’ve brought the tar in.)

He twisted, planted his feet, tried to squirm away. For a moment, he thought he’d made it; a half-second where the guard on his left slackened his grip.

But then his right hand was driven wrist-deep into the thick, black tar.

It was like waiting for a storm to break. A brief, fragile moment where everything is silent and waiting for the illusion to shatter.

He felt nothing, had a fraction to wonder if it was all a trick, or a fever dream.

But then-

The tar didn’t so much as burn as it did _sear,_ coating every pore of his skin with white-hot fire. Garrett tried to pull away, remove his hand, but was held fast. He had no words, nothing but a formless, shapeless yell as the tar blazed through his skin.

It felt like an eternity, everything focused on the burning, searing-

_Blackhand._

He could feel his mind shutting down, not even attempting to process what had happened, focused on blocking it out, as he was dropped onto the floor. Gasping, he curled his hand into his chest, trying to ignore the stinging, biting smell that was now joined with the scent of charred flesh.

The guards left, taking the pot with them, and Garrett was left with the General looking down upon him.

“You-“ Garrett began, voice sounding distant and hollow to his own ears. “You tell Delilah that I know what she is. And that-“

He broke off, gritting his teeth against the throbbing pain of his hand.

“And that I’ll _finish_ what Daud started.”

* * *

 

Sleep came even less easy, now. He’d managed fitful bursts when exhaustion had become too deep, but now every time he moved his hand rebelled in searing agony.

He was shivering, again, too.

They’d not come back since- since the tar. It had been at least several hours now, and there was a pale trickle of moonlight filtering in through the window, although it was mostly obscured by cloud. He scanned the wall, as if he were attempting to figure out an escape attempt, but he wasn’t sure if he had the energy to follow through.

In the light, his eyes picked out a symbol, carved by somebody who had probably been incarcerated here before.

The thieves’ code was old, as old as the profession that utilised it. The symbol Garrett now traced with his fingers was an old one. Stories said that it used to be a skull, reminiscent of the skull-and-crossbones well known from the privateers that terrorised the high seas far, far away. Years of use had rendered it to this, a simple crude illustration of a face, with one and only one meaning.

_Death likely._

If Garrett wasn’t so tired, he might have appreciated the humour of it more.

He hauled himself upright, into a sitting position, back pressed into the wall so he didn’t have to look at the symbol. The door was on his left, and from his position he could partially see into the corridor; a faint glimmer of torchlight several feet away. He wouldn’t say it was _comforting,_ but it was certainly less oppressive than the gloom that permeated his cell.

He held his right hand out, into the shaft of moonlight, examining it properly for the first time. It was encased in the thick, black tar; solid and cooled now. He could almost pretend it was a glove, a glove that sent a thousand spikes of pain rocketing up his arm every time a finger twitched.

He exhaled, slowly, trying to calm the churning of his stomach, trying to ignore the lingering smell of tar.

He remembered first time seeing a blackhanding. He was young, and a thief he’d been vaguely acquainted with had been caught. Something petty, trying to cut a purse in broad daylight, if Garrett recalled. Out of some misplaced sympathy, he’d decided to attend the punishment, overlooking the crowds and podium from a nearby rooftop.

And as much as he’d convinced himself otherwise, he’d never truly forgotten the smell of the tar that day, or the sound of the man’s screams.

He’d sworn to never fall foul of the same punishment.

And here, sat in the cell, looking at the black lump that held his hand somewhere, he realised he couldn’t remember what ever became of that other thief.

He couldn’t even remember his name.

He lowered his hand, raised his left to swipe at his eyes suddenly, hating the tears he found there.

The door rattled, and he flinched, scrambling away to the corner of the room.

_To do what, exactly,_ his mind asked, but he ignored it, digging his left palm into the rough stonework of the wall in an attempt to focus his mind. His right, he left curled around his stomach, crouching slightly hunched in order to protect it.

Two guards entered again, hesitating slightly when they saw him facing them from the corner, but apparently perceiving no real threat.

He made no move as they approached, eyes quickly scanning them for weapons (none, smart) or visible weaknesses (the rightmost had a slight limp).

He dropped his hand from the wall, instead grasping the long length of chain that ran from his manacle to the wall by the door, as gently and as quietly as he could.

The guards came closer, within striking distance-

And Garrett moved-

-whipping his left hand across his body, bringing the chain into the left guard’s ankles and tripping him-

-launching himself up from the wall, ignoring the screeching, grating pain that blossomed from _everywhere_ -

-kicking out at the right-hand guard, striking the most likely spot of the limp’s cause, resulting in the guard stumbling to the side-

-bringing the chain round, lashing out at the right-hand guard and grasping-

-coat, leather, _neck-_

He scrambled for purchase, bringing the chain with him, wrapping it tightly around the neck of the right-hand guard. The guard choked, tried to move, but Garrett simply yanked the chain.

“Make a move and I break his neck,” he hissed to the guard that was slowly rising from the floor.

“You’ll regret this, taffer,” the guard wheezed. Garrett didn’t respond, he simply tugged on the chain, pulling the guard towards the door.

They maybe shuffled forwards about two feet before Garrett’s grand plan of escape came to a grinding, screeching halt.

It was like a repeat of the Bafford Manor; vines emerged from _everywhere,_ making the Cradle groan and shriek on its foundation. They poured in through the door, obliterated the moonlit window and forced themselves through cracks in the stonework.

Garrett held on to the guard, pulling him away from the vines as quickly as he could, but they forced themselves between him and the other man, enveloping his hands and fingers. They constricted around his chest, arms, throat, lifting him and pulling him away.

The chain rattled to the floor, depositing the guard with it, as Garrett was held aloft and immobile by the snaking, thorned tendrils. Despite his plan’s immediate failure, Garrett still felt an intense satisfaction to see the guard wheezing and retching on the floor, marks from the chains already turning red on his skin.

The torchlight from the hallway dimmed, and Garrett saw that Delilah herself had actually made an appearance, followed closely by the General.

“Never takes long for the rats to turn feral, does it?” he asked, slowly rotating his cane before snapping it, whip-sharp, into Garrett’s ribcage. “Guards!” he barked, while Garrett wheezed out a few steady breaths, “stop fucking around on the floor and _move_ him already!”

Delilah didn’t speak, but Garrett found the vines loosening and dropping him to the floor, too, wherein he received a few savage kicks from the guard he’d attempted to strangle. He was joined by his partner, and they none-too-gently hauled Garrett upwards by his arms, securing his chain high on the ceiling once more.

“Come to black my feet, too?” he asked, grimacing at the strain the position was putting on his tender ribs and back.

“If only,” the General muttered, indicating the other two guards to leave.

“So,” Delilah said, tone similar to one commenting on the weather. “General Harlan here tells me that you think you know who I am. You certainly mention _names_ that get my attention, but you’ve done nothing so far to prove yourself… _useful._ ”

“He doesn’t know a thing,” the General said, dismissively. “He’s trying to trick you, so he can try and escape and slip out from under you.”

“The adults are talking, Harlan,” Garrett snapped. “I suggest you keep quiet.”

He was surprised to find he didn’t receive a beating for that one.

Delilah didn’t speak, and Garrett turned his attention on to her again, mouth twisting into some semblance of a harsh smile. He knew it was bait. Delilah wanted to know exactly what he knew, to try and gain the upper hand again. He’d spooked her, shook her to the _core,_ and she was attempting to regain control of the situation.

“You want to know what I know,” he said, drawing out his words slightly. “But I’m more interested to know what you _want_.”

Delilah didn’t answer. The General looked confused; Garrett didn’t have the inclination or the energy to call him out on it right now.

“You’re the smart one,” she eventually said, “Why don’t you tell _me?_ ”

Garrett exhaled, slowly, trying to sort his thoughts into some semblance of order. It was probably the best he was going to get out of her, and if it was going to give him a break from being punched he wasn’t going to complain about it.

He turned to face her, noting that her gaze settled on his right eye, enhanced with Primal energy.

“Abandoned in a world you don’t know, at the whim of a god nobody here can name,” Garrett mused. “Well, nobody except _me,_ and I’m not even one of his favourites. But that’s what happened, right?” he asked. “You and Daud had your… spat,” he settled on, noticing the faint pinching of Delilah’s features when he did so, “and somehow you found yourself here. All because _you_ had a plan for Emily Kaldwin.”

There- a flicker in Delilah’s expression. He’d hit the right mark.

“Did she tell you about Emily Kaldwin, General?” Garrett asked. “ _Lady_ Emily Kaldwin, Empress of Dunwall and the Isles-“

“No,” Delilah said suddenly, “ _Impossible.”_

He’d goaded her enough; Delilah appeared quick to anger and react. Garrett had barely noticed but he found himself suddenly constricted in vines again. They dug into the flesh of his arms and chest, and surrounded his throat again; he could feel them crawling up through his scalp, too.

“First of her name,” Garrett continued, attempting to ignore it. “Crowned by High Overseer Aloysius Durant on the First Day of the Month of Timber, 1837.” He’d committed the date to memory – the month and year number meaningless to him in this world but still important, somehow. “Except, you missed that date, didn’t you?” he asked, noticing a faint twitch in Delilah’s jaw as he did so.

“The girl had lost her mother, and you were planning- _what,_ exactly? Something so important that you would sacrifice a ten-year-old child to do it?”

“I merely wanted what was rightly mine,” Delilah hissed, as the vines wrapped themselves around him further.

“A phrase said by nobody with genuine intentions, ever,” Garrett muttered, before speaking louder again.

“So you end up here – I won’t bother with the whys and wherefores – to find there is no Outsider and not even a god to replace him. We got rid of our good ones years ago,” he said, as a vine worked itself around the shell of his ear. “I can only surmise that you want the next best thing, which is- well,” he said, tone darkening. “Better left alone.”

His speech had exhausted him, somewhat, he closed his eyes and dropped his head, trying to ignore the vines surrounding almost every inch of his skin.

“And you’re the one who’s going to tell me stop, is that it?” Delilah asked. “You, a petty thief who can barely comprehend power, let alone _use_ it. You- who seeks to make threats and tell _pretty_ stories about how you think the world works. And as for what I _want-“_

She broke off; Garrett found himself subjected to her intense, piercing gaze.

“I want what the Outsider _should_ have given me.”

There was a beat of silence; Garrett was very aware of every gentle shake of the chain, every drawn breath.

And then the vines moved.

They constricted his body, cutting into his skin and undoubtedly leaving raised red welts in their wake; lifted him and held him still, unable to move. Several more wrapped around his head, and-

In his periphery, he saw several vines move, twisting together, sharp thorns poised and-

It wasn’t something he saw rather than he felt; a sharp, stinging pain in his right eye, combined with an intense pressure that felt as though the side of his skull were about to burst with it. His left eye shut, teeth clenched in pain, but he couldn’t do _anything_ to stop the searing, _inhuman_ feeling of the vines burrowing in to his other eye.

He became aware of a noise, some kind of inhuman wail, a man in terrible, terrible pain and fear.

It took him a moment longer to realise it was _him,_ screaming his throat raw as the vines prodded and _pulled._ He felt the Primal rise up inside him, trying to fight back, bright blue and-

_Gone._

There was still the pain, still the distant sound of his own screams, but no longer was the feeling of _more,_ something Garrett hadn’t even known existed until he’d lost it.

There was a sensation of _tearing,_ pulling, and then the vines were gone. Gasping, Garrett opened his left eye to see Delilah reaching out to pick up something bright-white and blood-red, emitting a faint blue glow. Something _wrong._

_No-_

His stomach heaved, churned, and promptly voided itself of what little food had been put into it.

Coughing, Garrett dimly noted that he’d managed to throw up on the General’s shoes. He closed his eyes, sweat running down from his hairline, as his mind fought valiantly for an explanation, anything _other_ than the simple, hard truth.

_She took the Primal. She took your eye._

The room was silent again, Garrett’s voice faded to nothing. The chains were rattling, as his body was overcome with tremors.

He forced his eye open again, to see Delilah place his- his- _it_ into a device with three hooked claws, attached to a round object of some sort. When situated inside, the whole device glowed, and _hummed._

_“So long,”_ a voice inside his head whispered, causing him to flinch. _“So long since I have been able to see, and this is a good gift you have provided me, little man.”_

The device, contraption, _whatever_ it was that Delilah held, it was _speaking_ to him.

“All yours, General,” Delilah said, but the words came faint and dim to Garrett’s ears. “I have what I need to find the rest.”

It was then that his mind simply said a hard _no,_ and he passed out into a black abyss.

* * *

 

A gentle hand on his shoulder woke him; startled him to a half-upright position. His ribs ached, his hand throbbed and the side of his head pounded with every inch he moved, but he managed enough to see what had awoken him.

A guard was crouched over him; some involuntary instinct inside Garrett caused him to recoil instantly, away from something that could potentially do him more harm.

“Woah, easy,” the guard said quietly, as Garrett pushed his aching body into the corner. “I ain’t gonna hurt you. I brought you some food.”

He gestured to the floor next to them. A bowl and a small plate of _not-_ mouldy bread sat there. The bowl was steaming, he noticed, but that wasn’t much to go on considering the chilled air of his cell.

The guard backed away, standing next to the door, which was slightly ajar.

For a good half-minute, Garrett didn’t move. He looked at the guard, the door, the food, mind trying to come up with any way he could use the situation (or, indeed, any way the situation could turn worse for him). Nothing came to mind, so he carefully reached forward and grasped the edge of the bowl with his left hand.

It was a soup of some sort, not terribly hot but enough to provide his body with warmth. He drank it slowly, placing the bowl down to grasp at the bread and pull it into his corner.

“Why are you-“ he croaked, suspiciously looking at the guard. “Why give me this?”

“I uh-“ the guard broke off. “Me and the lads, we- I-“

He fell silent for a few moments, before speaking again, voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “I was outside the door when the Lady- when she-“

Garrett’s stomach plummeted, and he slowly placed his chunk of bread back onto its plate for a moment. His eyes closed, briefly, as he took a steadying breath, trying to ignore the way every movement of his face cracked the blood that was encrusted its right side.

“You’re new here,” he said, eventually, opening his eyes again and noting the bright gleam of the buckles on his outfit, the smell of brand-new leather and the overall youth of the guard.

The guard nodded, jerkily, hands clenching by his side.

“Not the grand adventure you’d thought it’d be, is it?” Garrett asked him, reaching for the bowl again.

“I’d heard the stories, ‘bout the General,” the guard said. “But he- I never thought-“

Garrett saw him take a breath, shake himself.

“You’re a criminal,” he said, almost accusingly. “You gotta know there’s punishments for breaking the law. But what- what _she_ did. Isn’t that- isn’t that illegal, too? Worse than illegal?”

Garrett snorted, regretting it when the movement caused his chest to ache.

“What’s your name?” he asked the guard.

“Caolan. Caolan Grey,” the guard said, uncertainly.

“Let me let you in on a secret of this city, Caolan Grey,” Garrett rasped, pushing the now-empty bowl across the floor to Grey’s feet.

“Nobody here is innocent. We’re all criminals somewhere. Some of us are just more obvious about it than the rest.”

* * *

 

The meal was to be his last, he learned later. The next time they came into his cell it was to carry him out.

They switched his manacles; his wrists stung when they came into contact with the air for a few seconds, but they were soon covered again by another pair of chains. They were shorter, enough to ensure he couldn’t run well, but be easily transported.

He didn’t fight back; the General watched over them and seemed almost _disappointed_ in Garrett’s lack of response. He tried to goad Garrett a few times, but he soon fell silent when it became Garrett no longer cared for any sparring with the General, be it verbal or otherwise.

He got his first look at the interior of the Cradle; an old building that almost certainly would have been to hell to live in if one were an orphan. What little light the guards had to see by only made the atmosphere here more _oppressive,_ somehow, and Garrett noticed that several of the cells didn’t even have doors.

They soon made it out of the building, in the cold winter air; Garrett’s first taste of it since the Bafford Manor.

It seemed so long ago, now. He didn’t even know how long he’d been imprisoned for. A week? Longer?

It was dark out, and threatening rain. Garrett could hear thunder rumbling in the far distance. The winter storms hadn’t been far off, he recalled, but whether they brought snow or rain was up to some cosmic power far beyond him.

_Did the Outsider control the weather?_ he wondered for a moment, before concluding that he probably didn’t. Far too boring.

He was lifted into a wooden wagon with a door on its rear. He didn’t need to see it properly to know what it was. He’d seen it roll up to the scaffold in Stonemarket enough times before.

So he was to be executed. He supposed it was the inevitable conclusion.

Another guard stepped into the wagon behind him; locked the door and sat on the bench in the opposite corner to him. It was Grey, he noticed, and his hands were shaking slightly. He carried a small crossbow, held loosely in his right hand.

Grey had left pretty quickly after Garrett’s revelation. He wondered what the boy must be thinking. But he, like Garrett, had made his choices in life. And they all had to see their decisions through until the end.

He recalled Daud’s last moments in Dunwall, preparing for his end inside a ruined district.

_No._

Garrett wasn’t Daud. He wasn’t an assassin, but he also wasn’t _plagued_ by guilt of a terrible crime he’d committed.

(He held guilt about other things, things he knew he couldn’t easily rectify, or even pretend to.)

Daud had channelled his guilt into stopping Delilah. But Delilah hadn’t stopped. She’d ended up here, and was ultimately planning something terrible, if she wanted the Primal stone. And _now-_

Now the mantle fell to Garrett. And anyone he could muster to get on side.

But he couldn’t do that if he ended up being executed. Hanged, probably.

There were two places thieves and other criminals were generally hanged. One was Stonemarket, the plaza in front of the Clock Tower. The other was Dayport, in front of the Keep; generally reserved for higher-priority criminals because of its general proximity to a _lot_ of guards. And there was no way to figure out which one he would be going to until he got there.

Above, thunder rumbled; the storm not quite breaking but close to, as the cart set off.

And then the rain started to fall, rattling loudly on the roof of the cart and muffling any sounds from outside. Inside, Garrett noted his breath misting in the air, and lowered his elbows to his knees, trying to warm himself through. He also tried to get the feeling back in the fingers of his left hand, as he spotted a nail digging out of the wooden bench on his right.

He looked around the cart again, eyes falling on Grey and his crossbow.

“The Keep, or Stonemarket?” he asked, simply, something akin to a plan forming in his mind.

(He felt warmer, already, finally finding something other to latch onto than his pain or his fear.)

Grey glanced around, out of the window and back to Garrett, before muttering, “The Keep.”

Garrett nodded, looking down at the floor again.

They would still have to pass through Stonemarket to get there.

He shifted his position, looking for all the world as if he were simply accepting his fate, while his left hand reached for the protruding nail in the bench.

It took him several minutes to pry it out without Grey noticing. Thankfully, the boy seemed more interested in what little view there was outside. He was probably glad to be free of the Cradle. Garrett knew _he_ was; he hadn’t even noticed how _close_ the air inside the place had been until he’d left it.

It took Garrett a lot longer to work the nail into the lock of his right manacle, slowly manipulating it to open the mechanism. The locks were simple, but Garrett was operating with the most basic of tools and very aware that any false move would result in his death. Still, the rain muffled any sound he made as he forces the nail into the manacle and the movement of the cart also masked any significant movements he made.

After what felt like an age, the manacle popped open; he quickly covered it with his left hand, so it didn’t make any overt noise and alert Grey. He palmed the nail, hiding it under his left hand also.

Garrett glanced over to the guard, who was gazing out of the window, while simultaneously making a mental note to practise picking cuffs again at a later date. He was getting rusty.

Outside of the cart, he caught a glimpse of a red light, barely visible in the rain.

“Baron’s Way,” he said, making Grey jump.

“How can you tell?” the guard asked, after a moment.

Garrett shrugged a shoulder. “You can see the lights from the House of Blossoms.” He’d not been there in a long time, not since his first experiences with the Primal and his journey to the ruined library below it.

“You know the city well,” Grey commented, and Garrett nodded.

“Better than you or the General, probably,” he said.

Grey swallowed, and Garrett considered him for a moment, before shifting his position on the bench, nearer to Grey and the window. The guard shifted, hand coming down to the crossbow at his side, eyes warily watching Garrett. Garrett lifted his hands, slowly, careful not to show the opened right manacle in the half-light, or the nail.

(In any case, Grey was avoiding looking at his right hand. Or the right side of his face.)

“Easy,” he said. “Can’t give a dying man a last look at his home?”

If his plan failed, then this actually _was_ going to be his last look at the city.

“You lived here long?” Grey asked, suddenly, moving to peer at the driving rain, too.

“All my life,” Garrett told him. “Feels longer, sometimes,” he admitted.

“Longer than your life?” Grey asked, confused, and Garrett huffed out a breath.

“If you knew what I knew,” he said, “then you’d say that too.”

They passed through an archway, giving them a brief respite from the rain. The thunder was drawing closer, now; wouldn’t be long until the storm broke properly.

The wellshaft in Bafford Manor was probably flooded. Garrett wondered if they’d found his spare set of clothes. No matter, now. He wasn’t ever going to go back there.

“How come-“ Grey asked, suddenly. “How come the General hates you so much?”

Garrett snorted, not turning his gaze away from the view outside.

“He ever tell you how he got his limp?”

Grey shook his head, eyes wide. Garrett supposed it wouldn’t hurt to tell the story. It would while away the time, at the very least, if not also distract Grey further.

“When you brought me in, I would have had a device, about this big-“ he demonstrated “-for climbing. Well- I was in a bad spot, once. Made a saving throw in a direction I couldn’t see. General’s leg just happened to be in that direction. Didn’t even know he was there or that I’d done it until about a year later.”

“You- you mean it was an accident?” Grey asked. “Why did you not just tell him?”

“And change what?” Garrett asked. “Fact remains I’m still a criminal and he’s the man supposed to bring me in. You’re young, kid, but surely you’re not naïve.”

“But- but look at what he _did-“_

“I’m well aware,” Garrett said. “But it was always an expected end.”

He snuffed out a quiet laugh, remembering something he’d once said to an assassin in a world far from his. “People like me, don’t get to find closure. We don’t get to _make_ amends. We’re either caught, or killed, or both. You take what comes, and the rest is void.”

Grey didn’t reply, Garrett turned his gaze to the floor, before back out of the window.

They were in Stonemarket, now.

“Look,” he said. “The Clock Tower has stopped.”

It was pitiful, really, how easily Grey fell for it, leaning forward to peer out of the window and into the rain.

Garrett moved quickly, darting to the side and striking Grey in the throat with his chain, to muffle any noise he might make. A choked wheeze signalled he’d hit his mark, and he moved again, wrapping his now-disconnected chain around the boy’s throat and pulling tightly.

He held the nail in his left hand, digging it into the pulse point on Grey’s neck, pulling the chain tighter. Felt it draw blood.

“Sorry,” he hissed, as Grey tried to pull him off, or loosen the chain, “but I’m the criminal here, remember?”

Eventually, Grey succumbed to the tight chain around his neck, and Garrett dropped him to the floor of the cart. He would be fine, eventually. Unless the General meted out his anger.

Either way, Garrett had no time to worry about what would happen to the boy. He, like Garrett, had made his choice in life.

The scuffle had tired him, but he couldn’t stop. He crouched, searching Grey quickly, coming up with the crossbow and three bolts.

_Cheap, worthless guards,_ he thought. Even _he_ could afford more than three pieces of ammunition. Still, it was better than nothing, and he placed it on the floor of the cart for a moment.

Lightning flashed, suddenly, bright-white and piercing the interior of the cart. The thunder that followed it signalled the storm had finally broken; the rain seemed to fall even harder. He put it out of his mind, jammed the nail into the door’s lock, and set about swiftly picking it, aware of his limited time.

There was a horse immediately behind his cart, ridden by a single guard. Experience told Garrett that there would be another in front of his wagon, too, and the cart itself would be driven by two more guards and pulled by mules.

He had three crossbow bolts, and no chance of outrunning the guards.

He cracked the back door of the cart open, thankful for the rain in hiding the motion of the door. The guard behind would likely barely be able to see in front of his horse at this point, but Garrett made sure to only open the door to let his arm out.

He had no chance of aiming properly. He only had a single eye now, and while so far he hadn’t come across any challenges he knew the second he started to move his body would try and compensate for the impeded vision. Still, he didn’t need to hit the horse.

He fired, bolt whizzing near to the horse’s head, causing it to spook and rear up. In the same moment, he opened the back door of the cart and dropped to the cobbled street below.

The shock and pain of landing almost caused him to black out, but he forced himself awake; used the stone and the cold water on the street to rouse himself to alertness. He’d created the distraction, and needed to use it – he rolled to the side, into the shadows on the side of the street, thankful they were too narrow to give the cart a proper escort.

There was an alleyway nearby. He crawled towards it, every breath heaving in his chest, but never before so glad to feel the rain on his bare skin.

He heard distant yells from the cart, but they were already lost to the storm and another roll of thunder.

When he reached the edge of the alley, he gripped the stonework, hauled himself upright and forced himself forward on his feet, ignoring the nauseating sensation the movement gave him, or the way he had to grip the wall next to him to ensure he didn’t fall over.

_You’re still alive,_ he told himself, even if he felt a hair’s breadth away from the opposite right now.

He moved another few feet, as fast as his legs would allow-

He didn’t notice the hands reaching out to grab him until he was being pulled into a darkened recess. It had come from his right side – his _blind_ side – and his pulse rocketed in fear as the unknown sensation made itself aware to him. He tensed, readied the chain still attached to his left wrist, as a hand clamped over his mouth.

“ _Quiet!”_ a voice said, somehow familiar. “It’s _me,_ you fool.”

_Sutter?_

_The thief from the other night?_

Slowly, the hand let him go, and Garrett turned to see that it _was_ Sutter; masked and cloaked and holding his dagger. His eyes widened as he took in Garrett’s state.

“By the Gods-“ he breathed. “When I’d heard you’d been taken to the Cradle, I thought- I never- here-”

He moved, shrugging off his cloak and wrapping it around Garrett, pulling the hood up over his head.

“We gotta get you to a doctor,” Sutter continued, coming up to Garrett’s right side and wrapping his arm around his waist. “There’s one in-“

“No,” Garrett said, trying very hard to ignore the fact that his stomach was churning over the fact he was unable to see Sutter in his periphery. “We’re going to the Stonemarket plaza.”

“Did the Cradle scramble your mind? You look like Red Jenny threw you off her damned nag! Are you fucking _insane?”_ Sutter hissed, and Garrett wheezed out something akin to a laugh.

“Maybe,” he said. “I did just escape the Cradle.”

“I don’t think that counts,” Sutter said, as they began to move – in the direction of the centre of Stonemarket. “You escaped a _wagon._ But either way, I owe you.”

“The Mariani goods?” Garrett asked, somehow thankful to be talking of something other than his own impending demise.

“Those too, I guess,” Sutter said. “I took them to Reefer but he wasn’t gonna pay me shit until I at least tried to get into Bafford Manor. And that was _after_ the papers said you’d been caught and sent to the Cradle.”

“So who’d you sell them to?” Garrett asked.

“Basso,” Sutter said, as they picked their way down through an underpass that was ankle-deep in water. “Figured I’d tell him that I’d seen you at the Bafford place at the same time. Pretty good cut he gave me, too.”

Garrett nodded to himself, as Sutter continued.

“Anyway, I’d been trying to look for a way into the Cradle for the past week. The codes are all shit for the Old Quarter, though, all doom and gloom and death and stuff,” he said. “And then I saw you were being taken to execution. I was gonna see if I could intercept the transport somehow, but you managed to beat me to it. How’d you get out?”

“Nail in the wagon,” Garrett told him, and he felt rather than saw Sutter pause.

“Of course,” Sutter muttered. “Can’t just find a key like the rest of us. Alright then, _why_ are we headin’ to Stonemarket, anyway?”

“Need to get something,” Garrett said. “And then-“

_And then?_

Garrett needed help. Needed people who were experienced with magic. And the obvious answer that his mind kept coming to was a person a world away.

He needed Corvo’s help. And he needed a certain god to get him.

“I hope you’re watching, you black-eyed, taffing piece of shit,” he muttered. “You’d better be sending him here _right now_ to fix your fucking problem.”

“Shit,” Sutter said. “The Cradle _did_ drive you insane.”

“Not the Cradle,” Garrett told him, as the Clock Tower finally came into view. “The Lady.”

“The who?” Sutter asked, as they paused under a wooden overhang on the edge of the plaza. “You know what- tell me later. Basso’s not far from here, we can get to him.”

“No,” Garrett said, attempting to worm his way out from under Sutter’s arm. “You need to go, and-“

He broke off suddenly as his right hand made to push Sutter away, resulting in white-hot shards of pain lancing their way up his arm. Sutter swore, stepped back slightly, hands making motions to help him but having no idea what to _do._

“Do you know the main code points?” Garrett asked. “The places we leave the important messages?”

Sutter nodded. “Baron’s Way, in front of the Keep,” he began, “the _Siren’s Rest,_ the _Crippled Burrick,_ the gates near Greystone-“

“All right,” Garrett interrupted. “You don’t need to tell me the rest. What you need to do is go and change the codes. People need to hide. Tell them: go to ground, to be on guard; witchcraft- and _death_. You know the signs?”

Sutter nodded, taking a piece of chalk out and sketching the marks onto a dry patch of wall.

 

“Good,” Garrett said, scrubbing out the symbols with his good hand. “You also need to visit the Queen of Beggars. Tell her-“ he paused, attempting to work out something that would make sense to her. “Tell her to be on her guard. One of the- the _great leviathan’s_ children are here.”

He hoped she remembered her discussion with him five years previous.

“Oh- _kaay,”_ Sutter said, raising an eyebrow in partial disbelief. “The great leviathan’s children. Right.”

“She’ll know what you mean,” Garrett said. “After you’ve done that – and the codes – you’ll need to go to ground for a while. Go back to Cinderfall, take a job from Reefer, or go see Birch in Audale. She’ll put you up if needs be.”

“What happened to you in there?” Sutter asked, suddenly, pocketing his chalk. “What’s got you so spooked? And _where_ are you going to go?”

“I need to stop Delilah,” Garrett said. “She- I don’t know what she’s planning, but it’s bad. Worse than the Gloom. I’m going to find someone who can fight her. Because what she’s done to me will only be the start of it.”

Of that, he was fairly confident.

Sutter didn’t look to happy about being ordered away, but he apparently knew the importance of the tasks Garrett had given him. The Queen of Beggars was the best person to spread the word in the city, so even if thieves didn’t manage to get to the code points, there was still a relative chance of them being forewarned about the new threat Delilah posed.

“Fine,” the other thief muttered, taking out his dagger and handing it, hilt-first, to Garrett. “Take this, then. You’ll probably need it more than me.”

Garrett nodded, gripping it tightly in his left hand.

“Go,” he said, remembering the last time he’d said this to Sutter, sending him to the Mariani workshop. Sutter didn’t speak for a moment, before muttering a quiet “good luck”, and disappearing into the rain.

Garrett drew in a breath, gazed up at the Clock Tower once more, before slowly crossing the street to climb up a ladder to the nearby rooftop.

Almost instantly he was aware of how difficult it was going to be. _Everywhere_ hurt, and the strain of hauling himself up the ladder alone had his muscles shaking. The ladder was slippery, too; at one point he found himself swaying dangerously over the street below.

_You can’t stop,_ he told himself, eventually hauling himself onto the rooftop.

The roof was wide, empty, but also slippery. Garrett found himself gripping on to the side railing with a white-knuckled grip as the world pitched and swayed around him.

He’d never thought that _walking_ would be as difficult as this. It wasn’t even the pain of his movements, or the storm, it was lack of _anything_ on his right side. At one point he hit his hip on the railing, not even aware that he’d been _that_ close to it.

He carried on. Had to. And soon enough he was at his door to the Clock Tower.

The traps he’d set were easily disabled – he’d been setting and resetting them almost every night since he’d first taken residence in the tower and didn’t really need his sight to do it. Inside, he paused, leaning against the cool stone wall of the Tower, shaking the excess water off the cloak Sutter had loaned him.

His chest was heaving with exertion, and he could feel a sticky warmth tracing its way down his back; the whip lacerations had opened up again. Every movement of his right hand sent fresh agony through his arm, and he wasn’t even going to _start_ considering the aching, hollow throb in the right side of his head.

But he had to carry on. And he still had a long way to go.

He traced his way up through the inside of the tower, the storm outside sounding louder and louder the higher he got. The wind was howling, up here, and paired with the rain and lighting he knew that travelling outside would be treacherous, if not suicide.

Lucky him.

He eventually made it to the peak of the tower, and his lair hidden behind the face. For a moment, he paused, gaze lingering on the bed and the thought of how easy it would be to just lie there and let whatever calamity that was bound to happen happen.

But he wasn’t a lesser thief. Wasn’t one who called it quits at the first sign of trouble. The greater the challenge, the greater the reward.

It just so happened here that the reward would probably be his life.

Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the inside of the tower, drawing Garrett’s gaze to a painting he’d hung on the wall, five years ago. A boy with no face, surrounded by a sea of blue and purple, arms outstretched as if he were welcoming the storm.

“This is your fault,” he hissed. “ _You_ marked her. You _had_ to know this could be an outcome.”

The painting didn’t answer, and Garrett considered throwing Sutter’s dagger at it. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to hit it, though.

Instead, he turned away, to his chest of equipment. Heaved the lid open and bent to rummage inside, searching.

He thought he’d imagined it, the first time he’d heard the noise. Barely-there, above the cacophony of the storm, he heard a distant, wailing shriek. Inhuman, abysmal, _wrong._ Something was coming closer.

He moved faster, knowing the sound was undoubtedly bad, searching- _where is it, come on-_

_There!_

His hand closed around an object at the bottom of the chest, wrapped in a small cloth sack. He quickly withdrew it, slammed the lid shut-

And saw vines creeping in through the window of the tower.

His stomach plummeted in fear. She’d found him. She was coming.

He turned, swiftly moving to the display cases on the table, opening two and picking out two more items, stowing them in the sack as well. Gripped Sutter’s dagger tighter – no time to grab anything else – looped the bag over his right shoulder and made his way to the window.

The air split with the noise again, the vines circling around the window _convulsed_ as Garrett pulled himself onto the ledge and out into the storm again.

_Move._

The wind whipped across Garrett’s skin, the rain was falling hard enough to sting, but Garrett put it out of his mind. Despite the agony it caused him, he flexed the muscles in his right hand – he needed both hands to climb higher up the Clock Tower.

Garrett had lived in the tower for the better part of his life. Had fixed the gears when it had stopped, had ensured that nobody would want to climb this high, and had mapped out every inch of it in his mind. Climbing was like muscle memory – he didn’t need both eyes up here because he’d trained himself to not need _either_ of them. Eyes were a liability this high up – fear of falling had frozen him a couple of times; familiarity and control of his fear was the only way around it.

The air screeched again, impossibly close, louder than the thunder that crashed above him.

Delilah had seen the Tower, in his mind. Had glimpsed the Primal Stone in it, too. And when she’d taken his eye and inserted it into that _device,_ she’d said she’d had everything she needed to find the rest.

There was no Outsider here. No Marked, no shrines, nothing. There was the Primal, sitting at the peak of the Clock Tower. And Garrett was going to ensure that Delilah did not have it.

A vine snaked its way around his ankle, trying to grip him, but he lashed at it with Sutter’s dagger, severing it in two.

_Good blade,_ some part of him reflected, as he turned to climb higher.

Eventually he reached the top, hauled himself upward to grip at the tower’s metal spire. He reached for a small wooden box, opened it to reveal the Primal Stone, sitting there just the same as the day he’d placed it up here.

The screech that rent the sky this time felt like it was piercing his skull – he almost lost his grip in an attempt to block his ears – and suddenly Garrett found himself face to face with Delilah, who was perched at the tower’s peak by virtue of a step made of vines.

“You tried, little thief!” she shouted, above the noise of the storm. “But there’s no winner here except me!”

Garrett looked up at the clouds, over at Delilah, and then across to the city, mind furiously working on some kind of plan, some kind of way _out._ Delilah next to him – _reaching for him –_ and vines all round him, and nothing but the sky and the storm up here.

“We’ll see about that, taffer!” he shouted back, before pitching his arm forward with all his strength, and hurling the stone as far away from the tower as he could.

There was a moment while they both watched the bright-blue of the stone fade into the storm and the distant lights of the city below.

“ _You-“_ Delilah snarled, but was unable to finish her sentence.

For it was at that moment the storm reached its peak, and the lightning that had been lancing the entire city struck the highest point: the Clock Tower.

And Garrett was holding on to it.

It felt like a punch to every single part of his being. The electricity coursed through his body, made every muscle seize and scream out in white-hot pain. He didn’t so much fall as he was _thrown_ from the tower’s peak. The last thing he saw was a glimpse of the _fury_ on Delilah’s face before he fell, far, far down, into a black and bright blue sea.

* * *

 

_“Think’st thou that I, who saw the face of God, and tasted the eternal joys of heaven, am not tormented with ten thousand hells in being deprived of everlasting bliss?”_

_Christopher Marlowe; **Doctor Faustus**_

                                                                                    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go again, kids! I don't have an update schedule because I'm terrible like that but I never post a fic I don't intend to finish, so we have that going for us. It might take a little while longer because I'm developing my own story but I've spent months working on the plot so hopefully it won't be too bad!
> 
> I wanted Delilah to be a surprise, which is why she's not tagged. I'll add her to the character tags eventually.
> 
> Find the images at wardens-oath.tumblr.com/post/151383611757/ccchap1


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So- so let me get this straight,” Emily said, looking between them, a good while later. “The Outsider brought you from another world – a world beyond the Void – to retrieve a- a- mystical gemstone.”  
> “Well when you put it like that it sounds stupid,” Garrett muttered. “But, yes. I’m from… elsewhere.”  
> “So much about you makes sense now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Ashe, who has three consecutive exams this weekend. Ashe if you're reading this it better be past Sunday or I will have wORDS.  
> Y'know I wanted this chapter out before Dishonored 2? I'm terrible yo. Dishonored 2 is GREAT though. I may have stolen a couple of things from it, but nothing that would cause overt spoilers.
> 
> Thank you all so much for the kind reviews for the first chapter! It was good to hear from a lot of you again, and it was also good to see new readers!
> 
> Thanks for this chapter, as ever, go to tumblr users cometoruin and sneaky-taffer. PLEASE go send them some love.
> 
> And I apologise in advance because this chapter is mostly dialogue and it pained my soul to write so much of it.

_“Knowing someone isn’t coming back  
doesn’t mean you ever stop waiting.”_

_Toby Barlow; **Sharp Teeth**_

* * *

 

He awoke gasping, coughing, face pressed into a hard wooden floor. Drew in a sharp breath, lifted his head slowly, wincing as his eye was assaulted by pale light. His face was half in water; he ended up partially inhaling some, and started to choke. He forced himself onto his back, coughing and spluttering, body aching all over as he did so.

The world smelled of rot and brine and sewage; damp, sweet and filling his lungs. He was looking up at a partially-destroyed ceiling, something that was once opulent and fine but hadn’t been for a long while. The wall to his left was no longer there, and the floor was half-submerged in water that he could see stretching out for several hundred feet beyond the edge of the building.

Everything was ruinous, quiet, abandoned. He couldn’t hear anything but the sound of water lapping at the woodwork.

It was light out. Dawn; the sky was tinged a dusky pink and streaked with hints of gold and blue.

This was not the City.

This was Dunwall.

Garrett hauled himself upright, breath wheezing, right arm almost giving out on him when he accidentally put weight on his injured hand. Barely managed to sit up straight, and found himself leaning back on his left arm, gazing out onto a place that had once been a cobbled street but was now a lake.

He’d only been here once before, but he remembered the stench of the Flooded District well enough to know it instantly.

_How-_

He stopped the thought before it started. There was no way he would be able to explain how he’d gotten here, other than the fact the Outsider had found it high time to actually intervene.

He supposed he shouldn’t be ungrateful, considering he’d been saved from plummeting to his death – or worse – but he could think of a thousand places that were better than the Flooded District.

He shifted again, tried to sit up straighter or even stand up, but his body protested so much he gave up almost instantly. Adrenalin and fear had faded, he was aware of every single grating breath, every single motion of his body, and the pain that hounded him at every second.

In the end, he simply fell back to lying in the puddle of water.

He might now be in Dunwall, but he had no idea how to reach Corvo. Had no energy to even stand up.

For a few minutes he watched a cloud pass across the sky, before he managed to manoeuvre himself into a seated position again and scan the room.

He couldn’t swim across the street-now-lake. There had once been stairs in the room but they’d long ago fallen apart, leaving a hole in the half-ceiling above him. There was a window to his right, but he didn’t exactly feel up to clambering through it right now, especially considering he had no shoes and the Flooded District wasn’t exactly the most _hygienic_ place.

Next to the ruined staircase, sheltered by the partial ceiling, sat a table draped in purple silk. Written on the wall, barely legible amidst the peeling and rotting paint-

_THE OUTSIDER WALKS AMONG US._

Garrett huffed out a breath that was something like a laugh.

“Better if he didn’t,” he muttered, grasping at Sutter’s knife with his left hand – it had been lying on the floor next to him. The sack (now slightly damp) was still wrapped around his right shoulder, and he could still feel the weight of the items inside it.

He pulled himself towards the shrine, mostly using his left arm, slowly heaving himself across the floor. By the time he reached the table, he was sweating, breathing hard; he leaned against the wall, sitting next to the shrine.

There was a lantern on it, but it hadn’t been lit in what appeared to be years, covered in dust and grime. There was also an item sat upon the table.

It wasn’t a rune. Garrett remembered those well enough, the way they would warp the air around them and _sing_ to those Marked. Reaching up and pulling the item down, Garrett saw this was made of whalebone, like the runes; shards and scraps bound together in inscribed metal in a vague triangular shape. He couldn’t read the words, but he _felt_ the power exuding from the contraption.

He grasped it in his left hand, placing the dagger on the floor next to him.

Gods, he was tired. His crawl across the floor had practically drained him of what little energy he had left. He hadn’t slept properly in a long time, everything hurt and his stomach was cramping again. He was shivering, too – Sutter’s cloak was partially frosted in the cold morning air, but it was the only thing he had covering his upper body right now.

He wrapped it around himself, shifted his position slightly to he was leaning more on his shoulders than the cuts on his back.

It wouldn’t hurt to rest for a moment.

* * *

 

“You sure it’s around here somewhere?”

“S’what the boss said.”

“Well the only thing I’m finding here is a corpse.”

“A _what?”_

The voices were nearby, but muffled somehow. Garrett also picked out footsteps on a wooden floor, accompanied by the sounds of splashing feet. He didn’t attempt to see who caused it. He didn’t have the energy to do anything; let them think he were dead, if they could just leave him in _peace_ for five minutes.

“I swear, Geoff, if you’re-“

“No, _look-“_

The feet stopped.

“Shit,” the voice said. “Someone really did a number on him, didn’t they? Is that tar?”

“Ain’t one of ours,” the second – identified as Geoff – said. “Thomas would have our skins if we left a corpse like that.”

_Thomas._

The name struck like a bell in Garrett’s mind. Familiar. And in the _Flooded District-_

He moved, drawing in a sharp breath as it pulled on his injuries, a final spark of adrenalin pulsing through his body. His left eye opened to squint up at two dark shapes hovering over him. Dark coats. Masks.

“By the-“ one of the Whalers said. “He’s still _alive.”_

For assassins, there was a deliberate _care_ with the way the pair moved; one stepping up to Garrett’s side and starting to examine him with well-practised movements. Still somewhat startled, Garrett floundered for Sutter’s knife, the whalebone talisman clattering to the floor.

“Here’s your bone charm, Geoff,” the unnamed Whaler said, picking up the item and tossing it to the other. Garrett felt him pull at the bag hooked around his shoulder, trying to peer inside.

“Don’t-” Garrett managed, left hand worming its way out from under the cloak, knife held in a shaking grip. He couldn’t see behind the mask, but he still registered the surprise of the Whaler. “Leave it alone.”

“Rowan,” Geoff said; Garrett heard him draw a sword. “Stop rooting through the poor sod’s shit while he’s still alive. Let him die or something first.”

“He might not,” Rowan answered. “But if he’s not one of ours, then who left him here? He didn’t get here under his own power.”

He backed away, slightly; Garrett lowered his knife.

“ _He_ could tell us,” Geoff said. Garrett closed his eyes again, adjusting his position slightly to try and alleviate the pain radiating through his back, ribs, and arm.

He supposed he should be afraid. He’d tangled with the Whalers before and it hadn’t ended well, but-

He supposed he never truly considered them enemies. And right now, they were the only people who could probably help him get where he needed to be. If they stopped bickering.

“He can barely string a sentence together,” Rowan said, dismissively, before sighing. “Fact is, though, he’s back on the old turf. _Nobody_ except us comes here anymore, especially since them at the Tower started talking about draining the place. It could be a message of some sort.”

“Shit,” Geoff said quietly. “You wanna toss a coin to see who goes and gets the boss?”

“No,” Rowan answered. “I should stay here and make sure the guy doesn’t cark it – you’re not getting out of finding him _that_ easily.”

Geoff swore again. “Fine. But move him out of the water or something. Put him- in the old office. We’re too exposed here and whoever left him might still be around.”

He disappeared in a blink, the familiar sound of warping air all he left behind in his wake.

“Should leave you here, just for that,” Rowan said, turning back to Garrett. “But you look like you’ve had enough shit for today.”

He moved back to Garrett’s side, crouched down.

“Just gonna check you over,” he said, when Garrett gripped his knife tighter again. “Moving injured people is dangerous at best. I’ll need to check you can actually survive it.”

“You’re the doctor?” Garrett asked, and when Rowan nodded, continued: “What happened to Jenkins?”

Rowan stiffened, slightly. “Dead,” he said. “Three years back.”

Garrett nodded to himself, grimacing as Rowan prodded at his side.

“Right,” said the Whaler. “I think you’ll be alright if we’re quick about it. Hold on to your shit.”

The sensation of travelling through space without moving was one Garrett would never get used to. He’d tolerated it, when Corvo had utilised his powers, but Whalers somehow did it on a much more extreme level. There was an instant of _nothing,_ and then a sudden stop that had him gasping in pain. His vision swam, and for a short while he didn’t really register anything, just faint movement and _pain, pain, pain._

He eventually came back to himself lying on a table of some sort inside a ruined office, high windows and bookshelves around him. It was warmer, more sheltered than the building Garrett had previously been in. There was a set of stairs to his left, leading to a mezzanine floor above them.

He recognised this place.

This was Daud’s old hideout.

“He knows about us,” Rowan was saying, somewhere in the blind area of his right side. Garrett turned his head to see he was joined by two other Whalers; Geoff and presumably Thomas. “He was asking about Jenkins-“

“Jenkins ain’t been around for years,” Geoff said.

Thomas held up a hand, silencing them both, as Garrett struggled to lift himself into a sitting position. He managed it, slowly, sitting with his feet hanging over the side of the desk. The sack was still around his shoulder, he was glad to see; the knife placed on the desk next to him. He supposed the Whalers weren’t too concerned about it, considering his general state.

“Thomas,” he said, somehow relieved to see a familiar face – or mask.

“I know you,” Thomas said suddenly. “You’re Garrett. The Lord Protector’s friend.”

“What’s left of him,” Garrett confirmed.

“Wait,” Geoff said. “That little guy I stabbed in the shoulder?”

“Hold on, _Geoff_ managed to stick a guy? When did that happen?” Rowan asked.

“ _Quiet,”_ Thomas snapped, moving forward to Garrett’s side. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

The Whalers owed him nothing. They had no reason to keep him alive. But Garrett knew he had few options before him and, well- the Outsider must have put him here for a _reason._

“I need your help,” Garrett said to him, simply. “I need to get to Corvo.”

* * *

 

“You know, if you stare at the window any longer, you’re going to burn a hole through it.”

Corvo Attano jerked at the sudden voice in his right ear, hand falling to his sword out of reflex, before recognising the voice.

Geoff Curnow smirked, nodding to the glass Corvo had absently been gazing at.

“That’s the fourth time this morning I’ve caught you looking out of that window; we’ve only been stood here for about an hour so far. Something on the Lord Protector’s mind?” he asked.

“No,” Corvo said, shaking his head. “Well-“

He broke off.

“Do you ever wake up with a weird feeling in the bottom of your stomach?” he asked. “Like- I don’t know. Something’s _off,_ somehow?”

“Can’t say I do out of the blue,” Curnow replied. “But then again, not all of us are gifted with a, uh- certain _intuition,_ shall we say.”

The comment was followed with a subtle glance to Corvo’s left hand; underneath the glove there was burned a mark that not many people knew existed.

“Maybe,” Corvo said quietly.

The brand had been itching this morning, too.

Either way, there was nothing he could do about it now – Dunwall’s court was in full session, and today was the day that citizens could petition the Empress for aid or anything they needed official approval for. They would be here for several hours listening to the woes of the city’s upper elite; then they would take a break and listen to (generally more important) troubles the common class had.

That being said, it didn’t mean the nobles didn’t try to ask for more… _specific_ things.

“I am sorry, Lady Tyreese,” Emily Kaldwin was saying. “But the Lord Protector is for my own personal guard only. I cannot- _loan him out.”_

For a fifteen-year-old, she’d certainly learned how to expertly field the more awkward questions an Empress could receive. Corvo, for his part, merely gave Lady Tyreese something along the lines of an apologetic smile.

As Lady Tyreese descended the stairs, Emily turned her head slightly, shooting Corvo an exasperated smile that he wasn’t sure he entirely deserved. Corvo sighed inwardly, silently praying the nobles had few problems today, so they could get on to the more productive work of helping the rest of the city.

“Lord Markham,” Emily addressed the next noble to come forward. She’d managed to learn the names fairly quickly since her coronation, never once forgetting which face belonged to which name.

“Empress,” Markham bowed. “I shall put my case simply. As I’m sure you are well aware, the Markham family has been deeply involved in the establishment of Dunwall for many generations…”

As Markham rattled on, Corvo reflected that he and the rest of the nobility apparently had differing definitions of word “simply.” Even Curnow, stood next to him, had an expression of well-practised neutrality that hid his boredom. Corvo was stood on the Empress’ left, Curnow her right; both slightly behind the throne so they could murmur quietly to each other if needs be.

Markham had been speaking so long that Corvo wasn’t sure if _he_ even knew what his problem was anymore.

“Corvo,” Curnow said suddenly, his tone quiet but urgent. “Did you see where Overseer Haliwell went?”

Corvo snapped his head to attention, hand resting on his sword again, silently scanning the room. Haliwell was the Overseer who was stood near the doors to the throne room, watching everyone who came in.

His post was suspiciously vacant.

“Jeffers is gone too,” Corvo said quietly, nothing Haliwell’s counterpart on the other side of the door was also missing. Haliwell and Jeffers were the Overseers tasked with holding the music boxes that would disorient any person who attempted to use black magic.

(Including Corvo, which was why he’d put them at the point furthest away from the throne.)

And if _they_ were gone, then-

It happened all at once; the air _shuddered_ as a large group of people, all dressed in dark clothing, appeared in the room. They were arrayed in various locations, paired together, swords brandished towards cowering nobles and threatening guards stood at the edges of the room.

Whalers.

Corvo drew his sword, moved in front of Emily, as she rose off her throne-

And then-

They _stopped._

The room was silent; the nobles’ initial shouts of fear had been quelled by the silent assassins holding them in check. Slowly, they moved them backwards, to the edges of the room. Several more took up positions by the doors, ensuring that nobody left, or tried to come in.

There was no way Corvo would be able to fight them all. Not without either revealing his secret or letting a lot of innocent people die – possibly both. He checked behind him, noting Curnow had taken up a position similar to his, but behind the Empress.

The Whalers weren’t _doing_ anything. They were just herding people out of the centre of the room, as if waiting for something.

This was not an attack formation. It was- _defensive,_ almost. Covering the exit points and ensuring crowd control, but above all _calm._

Corvo brought his left hand in front of his body, preparing to use his powers if need be. But then-

Another figure appeared in the centre of the room, in the space cleared. Similarly masked, they turned to face Corvo, Emily, and Curnow.

“Empress,” he said, clicking his heels together and bringing his hand across his chest – _a salute?_ “Lord Protector. Captain Curnow.”

Corvo recognised the voice. Thomas, Daud’s old second in command. In the past five years, the group had undergone several changes, and the reports by guards and informants had never made it truly clear who the new leader was. While Corvo had suspected Thomas to be the main player, the structural system of the Whalers didn’t seem to quite have the colour-coded hierarchy it did in Daud’s time.

“Forgive the theatrics,” Thomas said, partially addressing the crowd, “but I understand today is the day any citizen of the Empire may petition for aid, if needed.”

“Not for criminals and heretics,” Curnow said, hand flexing around his sword.

The Whaler opened his coat, slowly. Corvo saw him deliberately reach for his sword, grasping it by the blade’s edge.

He tossed it to the floor between them. It was followed by a crossbow that Corvo knew was generally fixed around the assassin’s wrist.

“A show of faith,” he said, although both he and Corvo knew that the assassin still had other ways to cause significant damage. “As the case may be, we are not here to petition on our own behalf. The others are merely here to ensure that we are unhindered.”

“Then _why_ are you here?” Emily asked, her tone carefully neutral and composed.

“Because I was asked to be,” Thomas replied, enigmatically. “For Lord Attano’s sake.”

_For me?_ Corvo frowned.

Thomas raised his left hand; a signal of some sort.

Two more figures appeared behind him, holding something between them. Moved past Thomas, as if they were approaching the throne to petition it, before gently placing the thing on the floor before the steps.

For a brief, horrifying moment, Corvo thought he was being presented with a corpse. But then he saw the rise-and-fall of the man’s chest, _heard_ the grating breaths he was making, and realised it was someone just about alive.

He shared a look with Curnow, before swallowing. Gripped his sword tighter and moved down the steps.

The man was pale-skinned, although that was difficult to tell. Simply put, there was not a clean inch of skin; he was covered in a mixture of black-to-purple-to-yellow bruises, black dust and grime, and dark red _blood._ His eyes were closed, but there was something about the right one that didn’t sit well; a streak of red that ran down the side of his face and neck. His hair looked dark, but patched and matted, likely with more blood. He was bare-chested, wearing a coal-choked cloak and a pair of rough trousers that looked ill-made and ill-fitting. Had no shoes, and a manacle encircled his left wrist; the chain draped across the floor next to him.

“What did you do this man?” Corvo breathed, kneeling down to inspect him. _And why bring him to me?_

“This was not our doing,” Thomas said, something akin to _anger_ in his tone, as if he could barely believe Corvo’s daring for even _accusing_ him of such barbarism.

“What- then _why-“_ Corvo began, trailing off when his eyes fell on the man’s right hand. It was encased in a lump of tar; Corvo could see the edges of his wrist were severely burned and could only imagine the agony it caused when moving.

_Blackhand,_ a voice in his mind said, and he frowned, pondering the origin of that word and where he’d heard it before.

Then-

_No._

He leaned forward, gently lifted the hand that wasn’t tarred, moving the manacle and chain to look at the skin on the back of the hand. And there, barely-visible amidst the grime, was a faded scar, made from a crossbow.

He had to be sure, so he gently moved the cloak aside, to gaze upon another scar carved into the man’s left shoulder.

_“Garrett,”_ he breathed, eyes raking over the familiar scars traced on the man’s face.

(“Garrett?” whispered voices at the back of the court. “The saviour of Kingsparrow?”)

His hair was slightly longer than it had been five years ago, and his face was partially obscured by a beard that looked no more than a week old – about the same age as some of the injuries.

“His condition has deteriorated since we found him,” Thomas said. “His injuries are severe, at best. He’s been in and out of consciousness for a while now.”

At mention of his name, Garrett stirred slightly. Corvo saw it took him extreme effort to even open his eyes. Or-

Corvo found himself looking upon a single eye. Dark brown, feverish and half _not-here._ In place of the other was a gaping, dark hole, so abhorrent and _wrong_ it turned it stomach.

“Corvo,” Garrett managed, face cracking into a smile of some sort, although it soon morphed into a grimace. “Miss me?”

His eyes closed again after; Corvo leaned forward, gently cupping his cheek and placing an arm around his shoulders to lift him upright.

Garrett’s teeth were gritted in pain, but he made no sound other than gasped, keening breaths as he was moved upright. It was then that Corvo felt a sticky, warm substance cover the palm of his left hand. Garrett was bleeding; the blood had soaked through his cloak.

“Garrett?” Corvo tried again when there was no response. “ _Garrett.”_ Took a relieved breath when the left eye flickered open again. _“_ How- what- _who_ did this?” he finally settled on.

“She-“ Garrett croaked. “She wants the- took the- took my-“

He drew in a shuddered breath, as if something were finally dawning on him.

“She took my eye,” he gasped, left hand grasping at the material of Corvo’s coat. “She- she-“

He trailed off, seemingly losing his train of thought as his mind wandered to darker places.

“Who did?” Corvo prompted.

“The Lady,” Garrett said, after a moment, eyes closing again. “ _Delilah.”_

Corvo didn’t recognise the name, but he didn’t fail to recognise the _shiver_ that went through several of the nearby Whalers, including Thomas.

Thomas turned his head, looked back down to Garrett and Corvo, and swore, very gently, under his breath.

He couldn’t spare the time to question; Garrett was no longer responding to Corvo’s gentle attempts to try and rouse him.

“Curnow!” Corvo called, gently laying Garrett down again. “Find Master Sokolov. _Now.”_

* * *

 

“Corvo?”

He awoke suddenly, startling upright when a gentle hand placed itself on his shoulder.

“Yes?” he said, mostly on reflex, blearily focusing his gaze on the person who had awoken him. “Master Sokolov,” he acknowledged, struggling to pull himself out of his chair.

The room was dark – they’d been in here for several hours while the physician had tended to Garrett. He must have dozed off at somepoint, although he couldn’t recall when.

Sokolov had been quiet, mostly. Focused on his work. He’d asked the servants near the door for supplies as and when needed. Corvo had originally joined him, but he’d been shooed to a nearby chair after a while, and had endured in silence for several long hours before apparently falling asleep.

Sokolov had called Corvo over for help once; to turn Garrett over so the physician could examine the deep red, bloody lacerations on Garrett’s back. Upon seeing them, Corvo found he’d had to swallow the bile that had suddenly risen in his throat. He’d kept silent, but Sokolov had probably noticed the change in demeanour.

Still, Corvo had hear _him_ mutter a few choice expletives.

“What time is it?” he asked, standing and stretching.

“One,” Emily said, from the chair next to him. “Sokolov finished about an hour ago.”

Corvo turned to face her. “You’ve been awake this whole time?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. He was momentarily floored by the ease of her response – she had no obligation to stay, after all.

“What- how-“ Corvo began, looking at the pale figure lying still on the bed. “How is he?” he asked, eventually, quietly.

“I-“ Sokolov began, running a hand through his hairline. “Perhaps this is best discussed without Lady Emily present,” he attempted, but faltered when Emily raised her hand.

“Don’t try and spare me from any hardship,” she told him. “I’m the Empress, remember? It’s my duty to know all that goes on.”

“Yes,” Sokolov said, somewhat sheepishly. “Well-“

Before he could continue, the door opened, revealing a weary-looking Curnow.

“Geoff,” Corvo nodded to the guard-captain. “Did you get to Coldridge all right?”

“I did. Brought whatever picks I thought would work. If not, well-“ he stepped aside, so another person could enter the room after him.

“Piero,” Emily said, rising, acknowledging the philosopher. “We didn’t drag you out of bed, I hope.”

“On the contrary, Lady Emily,” Piero said, executing a short bow. “The moment I heard Garrett was in Dunwall again I came over.”

“Well, he certainly knows how to make an entrance,” Curnow said, crossing the room, a set of keys and picks dangling from his hand. He stepped to the left side of the bed, and began to test the various keys against the manacle still encircled around Garrett’s wrist.

It had been Emily’s idea to send Curnow to Coldridge for the keys. While Garrett’s manacle wasn’t from Coldridge, it stood to reason that at least _one_ of the keys would fit. There were only so many sizes of manacle, after all. If they didn’t work, then Corvo was certain Piero would be able to find some kind of solution.

“How is he?” Piero asked. “The stories from the nobility make a grand tale of an escort made of assassins, carrying him in on a bier laden with flowers.”

“Not quite,” Corvo said quietly, recalling the slightly awkward and stilted moment of conversation he’d had to endure with Thomas and the rest of the Whalers after Garrett had been taken from the throne room. “But he was in a bad state.”

“Sokolov was about to go through it with us,” Emily prompted, turning to face the physician. “Just start as if you were to diagnose any other patient.”

“Right. Yes,” Sokolov said. “From what I could tell, I’d say his injuries are no more than a week old. It’s clear they wanted to keep him alive. If we start oldest to newest, then-“ he broke off for a moment, as if trying to figure out the best way to form his next sentence. “They started with beatings – never really stopped, honestly. His ribs are cracked but not broken. There are- strange marks on his skin. They look like rope, but rope leaves a distinct mark and it is not consistent with it. He was flogged, perhaps twenty or thirty lashes. His right hand was immersed in what appears to be pine tar approximately two or three days ago. Until we can get the tar off I cannot fully assess the damage. And then- then there is the matter of his eye.”

Corvo swallowed, briefly glancing to the still figure lying on the bed. Garrett’s right eye was now covered in a clean white bandage, but he could still recall the sight of an empty eye socket gazing up at him.

“It was removed with almost surgical precision,” Sokolov said. “Whoever did it clearly wanted to keep the eye intact for some reason. As for _why-“_

He fell silent, giving Corvo a meaningful look.

“Well, I can only guess,” he eventually said.

“It was his… odd eye,” Emily mused. “He never explained what had happened to it. Not to me, anyway.”

She’d clearly seen the look Sokolov had given Corvo, but had decided not to press it right now.

Corvo had never told Emily the truth about where Garrett came from, or how they’d met. To begin with, she’d been too young, too new to her job as Empress and not ready for the burdens of another world beyond her control. But as she’d grown older he’d found he had fewer and fewer reasons for not telling her.

In the end, she’d never asked. Not directly. Perhaps she understood that there were some things Corvo wasn’t quite willing to share, yet.

(It was the same way she never asked him about Coldridge Prison.)

“Got it!” came a triumphant cry from the bed; they turned to see Curnow holding the pair of manacles aloft.

He stepped back over the small, gathered group; Piero moving to the side of the bed to inspect Garrett for himself.

“Don’t recognise the mark,” Curnow said, passing the chain across to Corvo, indicating a stamp in the metal. “Heavy-duty ware, though. Whoever did this meant business.”

“The lock on this one is broken,” Corvo pointed out the right-hand manacle. “Looks like he forced it open with something.”

“We can get the full story when he wakes,” Emily said.

“Indeed,” Piero said, from beside the bed. “Master Sokolov, if I may borrow you for a moment, I have several ideas about what could be done with removing the tar from Garrett’s hand without damaging it further.”

The two philosophers took their leave, giving Emily a short bow as they did so.

“You should probably be in bed,” Corvo said to her; she folded her arms in response, frowning. “It’s late, and you have an empire to run.”

“You know, I’m technically more powerful than you,” she replied. “I could order _you_ to bed.”

“I’m well aware,” Corvo said, smiling softly. “But you won’t be if you don’t get enough rest. Just- let me worry about only one person tonight,” he told her. “We can- we can discuss this further tomorrow.”

Emily was silent for a moment.

“Fine,” she said; he was momentarily surprised by her acquiescence. “But only if you promise me that you’ll get some rest too. _That’s_ an order.”

“My lady,” Corvo said, executing a mock bow, earning himself a swat on the shoulder.

“How mother put up with you I’ll have no idea,” Emily muttered to herself, heading to the door. “Goodnight, Corvo. You should rest too, Captain Curnow.”

The door closed behind her, leaving the room silent aside from the gentle wheeze of Garrett’s breathing.

“I ran into the uh- the assassin, earlier,” Curnow said, quietly. At Corvo’s sharp look, he shrugged a shoulder. “He was unarmed and alone. Said that he needed to talk to you and he would meet you at the waterfront by Draper’s Ward.”

“Draper’s Ward?” Corvo repeated, raising an eyebrow. “You mean the place overrun with gangs that hate my sort?”

“He _said_ he would guarantee you safe passage through the district, if you were worried about that sort of thing,” Curnow replied. “But he also said he would only wait until dawn.”

Corvo looked across to the bed, to Garrett’s still form, and then out of the window.

“I would tell you that it’s suicide to go,” Curnow began, “but he was rather insistent. And if anything, you may be able to find out more about a group of assassins we’ve all been trying to catch hold of for years now. Like smoke, those Whalers. If you’re _really_ worried about them jumping you, wear that mask that I’m not supposed to know about. That’ll give ‘em a fright at the very least.”

“So you’re saying I should go and hope that I don’t get killed?” Corvo asked. “We still don’t know what happened to Garrett.”

_And whether it was on his side of the Void, or mine,_ he added silently.

“Then maybe _this_ is your chance to find out,” Curnow replied. “I can stay here and keep an eye on Garrett.”

The finality of his tone gave Corvo the feeling that he wasn’t going to win this argument.

“Wear a coat,” Curnow said. “It’s cold out tonight.”

* * *

 

Draper’s Ward was across the city from Dunwall Tower, but Corvo was well-used to travelling its rooftops and alleyways. While his daily duties consisted of standing behind an Empress and guarding her from would-be evils, the Masked Felon was the person whole stole across rooftops at night and sprinted against the rising sun.

The city was somewhat at peace with the Masked Felon, now; used to his motives and practices, even if the guards were technically supposed to arrest him on sight. They were used to the way he would appear in some downtrodden area and provide aid no guard ever could. The way he would then disappear into the night without a sound, leaving nothing but the golden glint of his mask.

_If you’ve not committed a crime, you’ve nothing to fear from the Masked Felon,_ people would whisper to each other. _The Masked Felon walks the walls around the city and listens out for those who cause pain and suffering._

But there were some places in Dunwall that not even the Masked Felon would tread without good cause.

Draper’s Ward had once been home to two warring factions of gangs; the Hatters and the Dead Eels. After the death of Mortimer Hat and the collapse of the former gang, the Dead Eels had essentially gotten free reign over what had once been a place inhabited by only the highest of nobility.

Draper’s Ward was a paradox, nowadays. After the lifting of the quarantines, many citizens found their original homes were still unsuitable to live in, or simply no more. Draper’s Ward had still been standing, had been less affected, and best of all the gangs had welcomed them in. Protection, for a price. And so, the stores along the waterfront had opened for business again, to deal in both the over- and underworld, whatever the customer’s preference. The guard couldn’t touch it. Any raid they planned to root out the Dead Eels was confronted with legitimate businesses and irate patrons. Eventually, the city had decided to let them be. Draper’s Ward was recovering, after all. And there were bigger ills to wrong in the city of Dunwall.

The Masked Felon wasn’t exactly _unwelcome_ in a place such as the Ward _,_ but Corvo knew that any wrong move would set him at odds with one of the most powerful gangs inside the city.

He perched on a rooftop on the outskirts of the Ward, glancing up at the sky. It had taken him two hours to get here from Dunwall Tower, but it was wintertime; the sun would not rise for several hours yet.

Thomas had promised him safe passage, but Corvo wasn’t about to let his guard down and willingly accept such a promise.

Maybe he should have asked Curnow to send some guards over. They would have been a distraction at the very least.

At this time of early morning, Draper’s Ward was quiet, most of its occupants asleep. Even the night traders were closing down, the cold discouraging most from attempting to follow through on business.

Perhaps it was also the fact the city was awash with rumour and suspicion, about assassins inside Dunwall Tower.

_“Didja hear?”_ Corvo had heard a sailor calling to his friend along the waterfront an hour ago. “ _A bunch of assassins raided Dunwall Tower. Didn’t kill no-one, but left a corpse for the Lord Protector to find!”_

Not quite.

But Garrett hadn’t been far from death, in all honesty. Corvo had no idea how he’d held on for so long. The sheer force of will it must have taken him to escape from his-

His _prison?_

He supposed they would all find out later, when Garrett woke up. Whenever that would be.

_“It’s common with trauma like this,”_ Sokolov had said. _“The mind shuts everything down until the body can find outside help. He’ll wake, in time, but not until his mind is satisfied his body is out of danger.”_

How the mind decided that, Corvo didn’t know.

The dockside by Draper’s Ward was quiet, mostly empty. A large ship took up the most prominent berth; emblazoned with a logo declaring it belonged to the Dead Eels. A name plaque near the front named it as the _Undine._ Corvo could see someone patrolling the upper deck, but at the boat’s prow stood a figure, wearing a thick coat and a mask.

It had to be a trap. There was no way the Whalers would simply _offer_ him aid.

_But-_

But he had seen their reaction when Garrett had said that name. _Delilah._ Who was she? And why was she familiar to them?

As Corvo watched, another figure appeared on the deck of the boat; a Whaler come to report to Thomas, presumably. The assassin listened, but whatever reply he made was lost to the night. The second Whaler left, and Corvo watched as Thomas heaved a sigh, leaning forward on the foredeck’s railing.

Somewhere above him, a gull cried out, uncaring for the black of the night or the chill of the air. Corvo glanced up for a moment, trying to spot it against the blanketed stars, but soon gave up and returned his gaze to the waterfront.

Here was a world away from Dunwall Tower, from nobles and plush finery and underhand dealings. Here was a simpler life, something Corvo was more familiar with from having being born into such simplicity. If his lot in life had been any different, he may have found a home in a place such as this. Draper’s Ward was a place that welcomed all, in the end, because they had nowhere else to go.

Maybe that was why Thomas had chosen it as a meeting place.

Corvo was stalling for time, now, he knew that. The fact was, he needed information, and Thomas was the best person to give it to him. He’d been the one to bring Garrett to them – _had risked his life to do so._ More than his life, his entire organisation. All for a man they barely knew, had met once on opposing sides of a fight that truly never belonged to either of them.

He sighed to himself, checked his sword, and pulled his left hand up to blink across to the deck in front of Thomas.

The assassin turned at the sound of his arrival, and while Corvo couldn’t see his face he definitely registered Thomas’ surprise.

The assassin inclined his head slightly-

“No names,” Corvo said, quickly. His mask would only be worth something if people didn’t know the name associated with it.

“Of course,” Thomas said, smoothly, as if he had expected as much. “I’m glad my message was able to reach you.”

They didn’t speak for a moment, awkward and heavy silence falling between them. How could they make small talk, after all, considering the things they’d both done in their pasts?

“How is he?” Thomas asked; Corvo didn’t need to be told he was asking after Garrett. He was surprised, however, by the quiet _concern_ in Thomas’ tone.

“Alive,” Corvo said. “Weak. But the physician is sure he’ll make it. I’m sure he will, too.”

Thomas nodded to himself, before looking back up at Corvo.

“We found these with him,” he said, producing a small cloth sack from a pocket on his jacket. “I meant to give them to you earlier, but- well-“

He passed the sack over.

“I had other things to think about,” he said eventually, as Corvo carefully unfolded the sack. The first thing he produced was a small dagger, well-crafted but basic. Definitely for utility rather than decoration. Corvo could see a small _S_ engraved near the handle’s end. The next item he pulled out was a medal; stamped with the seal of the Empress of Dunwall. Garrett’s Medal of Valor. He’d probably brought it in case he’d needed to seek passage of some sort, or prove his identity.

There were two other items in the sack. One was small, metal, round. Corvo frowned when he pulled it out – he _recognised_ it. It was an _eye._

Years ago, when Garrett had first met the Outsider, the god had provided him with gifts. The Eye which had enabled to see farther than humanly possible and spoke to him with a voice from his past. But Garrett had mentioned the item before, a _real_ eye that he’d found on some heist somewhere.

It was old, speckled in a patina of rust, and there was a symbol engraved on the side of it that Corvo didn’t recognise. But even so, Corvo could guess Garrett’s intention.

The last item was one he recognised all-too well. A small statuette of a whale, with two blue gemstones for eyes.

Except, one of the eyes was not a simple blue stone.

_He brought this here?_

In the dark of the night, the blue glow of the Primal stone was easier to see. It occurred to Corvo that this was his first time seeing the stone outside of the confines of the Void.

Somehow looking at it turned his stomach, made the brand on the back of his left hand pulse. It was _wrong_ in a way he would never be able to pin down, unsettling and foreign in a way most everything else was not.

“Something about that,” Thomas said quietly. “Does not sit right.”

“It shouldn’t be here,” Corvo said eventually, stowing it back inside the sack; the feeling abated somewhat now he wasn’t holding it.

“Why did you call me here?” he asked. “You could have easily just left these somewhere for me to find.”

“I could,” Thomas agreed, “but there are matters that are best discussed in person.”

“Then tell me what happened,” Corvo said. “Tell me how you found him.”

“Two of my men were sent to scout in the Flooded District,” Thomas explained. “As I’m sure you’re aware, we as a group no longer reside there.”

Corvo did know that. He’d forayed into the district once or twice, but had found the Whalers’ compound abandoned, as if their existence were simply a memory from ages past.

(But the wanted posters Daud had collected still lingered, as did a few scattered runes and weapons that Corvo had soon gathered.)

Corvo had no idea where the Whalers based themselves now. He’d heard rumours, but nothing more than that. Still, he nodded.

“They found him beside a shrine dedicated to the Outsider, in the state you saw him in. From what I’m told, he didn’t tell them anything important. In any case, the two scouts decided to find me. We’d only been in the district a few days before and there had been no sign of him then, and there was no way he’d gotten there under his own power. We couldn’t be sure if it was a message of somekind. But I recognised him, and he asked for help. Despite what occurred between us in the past, I couldn’t leave him there. Not in that place. So, I gathered the men, and brought him to you.”

“You recognised the name Garrett gave,” Corvo said.

“I-“ Thomas began, breaking off. He turned to look out across the water. “I hope that I am wrong. That I misheard, perhaps. But the world is not kind in such a way, and someone once told me that in Dunwall there is no such thing as coincidence. If- if he was correct, then- then his situation is even worse than first thought.”

The sound of a door opening drew Corvo’s attention; he span, reaching for his sword, to find himself faced with a heavily-tattooed woman, head partially shaved, and wearing a mean expression. She looked unimpressed.

“When you said you wanted my lot to allow a visitor safe passage,” she said, looking at Thomas, “you never said it was the friggin’ Masked Felon _._ Is he comin’ up the river too?”

“No,” Thomas said, as Corvo realised with a jolt he was looking at Lizzy Stride, leader of the Dead Eels.

The Whalers and the Eels were in league with each other, then. Enough that Thomas was able to request something from Stride without major repercussions.

He nodded in greeting, folding his sword away. The safe passage offer could just as easily be rescinded as it was given, after all. He was on dangerous ground already, he didn’t want to make it worse.

“How Thomas knows you, I won’t even try to ask,” Stride said. “But if you so much as touch one of my crew, I’ll bring the entire Ward down upon your skull, no matter what kind of mask you wear.”

_“Fishermen like to tell tales about how Lizzy Stride’s teeth. Sharper than a shark’s, they once bit a man’s tongue clean out of his skull,”_ the Heart whispered. Corvo was glad his face was hidden behind a mask.

Even without the Heart’s comment, Corvo could tell her threat was sound. Stride would do it, if needs be. But she’d also asked if he was going with them, too-

“Where are you going?” Corvo asked, turning back to Thomas.

“Upriver,” Thomas replied, enigmatically. He clearly didn’t want to show his entire hand yet. “There is a matter I need to investigate. It is- related to our mutual problem,” he said, not elaborating for Stride’s sake, presumably. It didn’t stop her from looking curious, folding her arms and fixing them both with a hard expression.

“I will be gone for two days,” Thomas continued. “When I return, I will have more information for you. I will tell you everything there is to know about-“

He broke off.

“About what happened before,” he settled on.

“Hurry it up, Whaler,” Stride said, “the longer you fuck around the harder it’s going to be to travel the river. Dawn patrols start soon.”

Thomas nodded, reaching into his pocket and producing another item. It looked of similar make to the runes dedicated to the Outsider, except that it was three shards of bone bound together in metal. Corvo took it, slowly, feeling the power wash over him.

“Put this under his pillow,” Thomas said. “Or nearby. It will aid with his healing. When he wakes, place a lantern atop- your place of residence.” Stride raised an eyebrow, noticing the lack of specifics. “I will return then.”

“If he wakes before you return?” Corvo asked. “And what makes you think I would just _let you in?”_

He didn’t bother to ask how Thomas knew what room they’d put Garrett in. For one, it was probably obvious that he’d be in Corvo’s chambers instead of a guest room.

“If he wakes before I return, place the lantern anyway. I will be there as soon as I am able. As for letting me in-“ Thomas paused, looked up at the sky, before back to Corvo.

“Can you really afford to take that risk?”

* * *

 

He awoke to the dark, to a gasping, heaved breath and a half-forgotten terror lingering in his mind.

_Where-_

_Dunwall. The tower,_ his mind supplied, calming him slightly. He recognised the room he was in. Corvo’s chambers.

He moved to sit upright, half-raising himself as pain made itself aware in his ribs and back. He grit his teeth, took several deep breaths, before opening his eyes again.

His right eye was bandaged. He could feel the soft-yet-coarse material pressing into the side of his face. He could feel bandages in many other places, too, including wrapped around his right hand. Everything else was a fog, a blur that his mind stretched for but was unable to catch hold of. Something inside him told him he didn’t want to stretch further.

A shadow moved across the edge of the bed; he flinched instinctively, before registering the form properly. Feminine, young. Dark hair tied high.

Emily Kaldwin smiled softly at Garrett, raising a finger to her lips.

She’d grown since he’d last seen her. She had to be around fifteen now, his mind pondered slowly. Her face had lost some of its youthful innocence over the years.

Still, Empire suited her, Garrett could tell.

She pointed at the far end of the bed; Garrett turned his head to see a tall figure slumped in a chair.

Some part of him remembered a similar time, many years ago, when Emily had been the one asleep at the end of his bed.

“He only fell asleep a short while ago,” Emily whispered. “He’s been awake for practically three days.”

Some part of Garrett’s fogged mind could relate, but he’d already spent too long here.

“I- I need-“ Garrett began, cutting himself off as a hacking cough rose in his chest. Emily moved, reaching for a jug of water on the nightstand, pouring a glass and passing it to Garrett when his cough subsided.

If she noticed the way his hand shook when he grasped the glass, she didn’t say. She just gently held onto his elbow, with a care that belied her age and status.

“Whatever you need to do,” she said quietly, “can wait. You’re still weak and in need of rest. Your fever only broke a few hours ago.”

_Fever?_ Garrett frowned over his glass.

A hand pressed gently into his shoulder, the other took the glass from him and he found himself pushed gently back down onto the pillows.

“Go back to sleep, Garrett,” Emily said, as his mind faded to darkness again. “I’ll keep watch for you.”

* * *

 

The brand was itching again. Corvo hadn’t noticed it until he’d found himself absently scratching at the skin beneath his gloved hand. For a second, he paused, before his gaze was drawn to the softly-glowing statuette that was situated in the centre of his desk.

He sighed, pulling his gloves off, glad to free his hands from the leather.

Emily was at her lessons. Sokolov and Piero had been given the task of discovering how the mechanical eye worked, and whether it could be used to restore Garrett’s vision.

(They’d not indicated either way. Corvo didn’t know whether that was a good sign or not, but he was telling himself to not start hoping yet.)

Corvo was alone in his chambers, with a still-sleeping Garrett, and a supernatural stone that was never meant to be on this side of the Void again.

It had been three days since he’d seen Thomas at Draper’s Ward. He’d been turning over the assassin’s words ever since.

And while he had the privacy, he’d also been examining the statuette with the Primal stone inside; plucked it from the surface of his desk to squint at it closely.

Five years ago, Sokolov had described seeing visions of another city through the stone. _How_ he’d seen them had been a question Corvo had pondered over many times. He’d never asked Sokolov. Sokolov, for his part, had never asked Corvo whether he and Garrett had found the stone during their time in Dunwall Tower or Kingsparrow Isle.

But simply staring at the stone wasn’t doing anything. Corvo wasn’t even sure what he was attempting to achieve, in any case.

He sighed, moving to set the statuette down. As he did so, his thumb brushed the blue stone situated in the whale’s eye socket.

And he _saw-_

_-a man dressed in a dark cloak, brandishing a knife-_

_-a silver sword, mounted high on the wall-_

_-chains, a large man in a dark leather uniform, sneering-_

_-vines hurtling out of the darkness, blocking view, pulling-_

_-a different, smaller man with a single eye, a beaten body, and covered in blood-_

Corvo came back to himself kneeling on the floor behind his desk; the back of his left hand scorching hot and the right clutched over his right eye. His hand was shaking, he noticed absently, as he tried to calm his breathing.

He slowly opened his eyes, and he pulled his hand away gently. But it was still there. His eye had not been taken out. But the _sensation_ remained, the feeling of something _missing,_ and his stomach was churning uncomfortably.

_What had he seen?_

He took a deep breath, reached forward for the statuette that had tumbled out of his grip and caused the visions to stop. Grasped at it again, touched the stone embedded there.

_-a stone corridor and a feminine hand-_

_-a giant sprawling city, a thunderstorm, a hand reaching for him-_

_-a man with a single eye, facing a woman entangled in vines-_

_-falling, falling, falling, the figures fading above him-_

“Corvo!”

There were hands on his shoulders, gripping him tightly. Gasping, he hauled himself upright, registering that it was Emily who was holding onto him, her face pinched with worry.

“What- what are you _doing?”_ she asked. “I came in here and you were on the floor, shaking, and-“

She broke off, clearly not knowing how to continue. Corvo nodded, right hand grasping at her shoulder, pulling her into a hug for reasons he wasn’t sure of. Just-

The things he’d just seen? He needed some small measure of comfort after that. Something to ground him in this world again.

“I- I’m sorry,” he said to her, letting her go and running a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath. “I- I was-“

He saw the statuette, sitting on the floor under the desk, amidst a pile of papers that had clearly been scattered there. He wrapped his hand in his sleeve, gingerly picking it up, ensuring he didn’t touch it with his bare skin.

“That’s-“ Emily began, frowning. “Is that the- the thing from the Lighthouse?”

Of course. She would remember. Would recognise the light the stone emitted.

He nodded, seeing no need to lie.

“Don’t touch it,” he warned her, as he hauled himself upright, leaning on the desk for support.

“What happened?” she asked him.

“I-“ Corvo began, gripping onto the desk. “I don’t know,” he answered. “I saw-“

He swallowed, stomach churning as he tried to piece together everything he’d seen into some sort of order.

He’d originally thought he’d simply been seeing things from Garrett’s perspective. A recounting of events past. But then-

“The stone,” he realised aloud, noting Emily’s face change to a confused frown.

He’d been seeing it from the _stone’s_ perspective. The piece embedded in Garrett’s eye, and then the _other_ stone, that Garrett had gained several years before and secreted away.

The stone was important.

“She took the stone,” Corvo said slowly. “Maybe she didn’t want his eye after all.”

“Who?” Emily asked.

“Whoever the Lady is,” Corvo replied. “This- _Delilah.”_

The name felt familiar on his tongue; he recalled a Delilah he’d once known, an old friend of Jessamine’s. But she hadn’t been heard of for years now.

“Corvo,” Emily said, in a tone that suggested he wasn’t going to like what she said next. “I think it’s time you told me exactly what’s going on.”

Corvo didn’t reply for a long moment; let the silence fill the air between them. He’d known he couldn’t shield her from it forever, but-

But he’d never wanted to explain it now, in a situation like this. When she was older, maybe, a full adult who had the time and the worldly experience to sit down and process everything he would have to say.

But the world was not kind to little girls who became Empresses far too soon.

“I-“ he began, faltering immediately under Emily’s gaze.

“You’re so much like your mother,” he said eventually, softly, “you know that, right?”

Jessamine had been able to see through him as easily as Emily could. Had never truly pressured him either, until it was necessary. She’d been better at seeing when his secrets were just hurting himself and others instead of protecting them.

Emily’s expression softened slightly at his words, but she was still expecting an answer from him.

A gentle rustle from the other side of the room caused Corvo to flinch, suddenly, and they both turned to find themselves being watched by a single, dark eye.

“Not to interrupt,” Garrett said slowly, “but if we’re telling stories then I’ve got one that will have yours beat.”

“Garrett! It’s good to see you awake,” Emily said, stepping past Corvo and drawing a suddenly-surprised Garrett into a hug. Still, Corvo saw him smiling gently as he released her.

“Corvo,” Garrett greeted him as he approached the bed. “You’ve cut your hair.”

“ _That’s_ the first thing you say to me?”

Garrett’s mouth twitched.

“Well,” he said slowly, “I _was_ going to mention it when I first stopped by, but I was rather indisposed at the time.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Corvo muttered.

“I’ll go fetch Sokolov,” Emily said. “He’ll want to examine you now you’re awake.”

Garrett nodded, watching as she left the room.

“She’s grown,” he commented, looking down, lifting his right hand and examining the bandage wrapped around it. He didn’t say anything for a few moments, looking down at the hand, mouth pulling itself into an uncomfortable line.

“How- how are you feeling?” Corvo asked him, immediately regretting the question when Garrett looked up at him.

There was something hard in his expression, but also something _lost_ too, like he was trying his hardest to not contemplate the full extent of what had happened to him. Corvo could barely comprehend it himself, as an observer, he had no idea what it was like for Garrett to actually go through.

“I’ll live,” Garrett said slowly, eventually. “Did you get the things I brought?” he asked suddenly.

Corvo nodded his head. “Yes. I gave the eye to Piero and Sokolov, to see if they could get it working again.”

“I need to see them,” Garrett said, quickly. “I- I didn’t just bring the eye for them to use.”

Corvo frowned, before he turned to look back at the statuette, sitting on the desk. Its right eye still glowed, and Corvo felt the brand on the back of his hand start to tingle again.

“Tell me you’re not planning what I think you’re planning,” he said slowly.

* * *

 

“This is lunacy. You cannot possibly believe this will work.”

“It worked before.”

“Yes,” Corvo agreed, “but with your _real_ eye. And completely by accident. Not with a- how old even is that thing?”

“A few hundred years,” Garrett said, placing the mechanical eye back onto the table. “The mark on the side shows it to be of original Builder craftsmanship. If it was truly made for the Sneak Thief, he was either rich, owed a favour, or just extremely lucky, once.”

Garrett frowned for a moment.

“Or not,” he said slowly, “considering he needed the eye in the first place. They say it was torn out on the orders of the Trickster, you know.”

“Be that as it may,” Corvo said, “why do you want to add the stone to it? I understand you- you wanting another eye- but-“

He broke off as an uncomfortable silence passed between them, noting the slight twitch in Garrett’s jaw, but he pressed on.

“You and I both know how dangerous the stone is. You know _more_ than I do. Why- why do you want something you despised so much back?”

“Because-“ Garrett began, shifting his position in the chair slightly, wincing as he did so. He didn’t speak for a few seconds, gazing out of the window at the Wrenhaven.

“What- what _she_ did,” Garrett said slowly. “What she can do- I- I can’t fight it on my own. Could barely fight it with the piece of the Primal I had. But it was _something._ I’m not going to let myself fail again.”

Garrett hadn’t fully explained what had happened, yet. Corvo hadn’t pressed, hadn’t wanted to go over fresh and painful memories until Garrett was ready.

From the other side of the room, Sokolov cleared his throat, drawing their attention.

“Before you both wear yourselves out with arguing,” he said, slowly, “Garrett’s request may actually present a solution to a problem we’ve been having with the eye.”

“What problem?” Garrett asked.

“Mechanically,” Sokolov said, “the eye is sound. It functions perfectly, as if it were made yesterday. _But_ we have no idea how it is powered. The original source is lost. _But-“_

(Corvo had a feeling he wasn’t going to like what Sokolov said next.)

“The stone could be used as its power source.”

“Is that even possible?” Corvo eventually asked, inwardly wishing he didn’t have to ask that sort of question.

“Despite its size, it is an object of immense power,” Sokolov said. “It could very easily power the device.”

Corvo sighed, sensing that this was an argument he wasn’t going to win.

“Well,” he said slowly, “I guess we won’t find out until we try.”

Sokolov nodded in agreement, picking up the eye and the stone, making his way to the door.

“Sokolov,” Garrett called. “If you so much as consider carving off a piece of that to keep for yourself, know that it would end _very_ badly for you.”

Sokolov paused.

“I’ll return to change your bandages in a few hours,” he said eventually. “Try not to overexert yourself until then.”

“Nice to see he’s still the same as ever,” Garrett said, after he left. “Still trying to meddle in affairs beyond his comprehension.”

“Unlike us, who get thrown into them,” Corvo agreed. Garrett snorted.

“Surely the rate of you being thrown that sort of thing has dwindled, somewhat?” he asked. “Especially once I left.”

“You would think,” Corvo replied. “But there’s a whole cell block in Coldridge Prison that would be inclined to disagree.”

He’d visited the Heretic Cells only once before, but he’d been unable to shake the notion that, if he were discovered, they would be his final home. Solitary in Coldridge was nothing compared to the horrors of the Heretic Cells.

Garrett didn’t reply; his face took on a distant look, as if he were remembering something similar.

“I know we haven’t discussed it-“ Corvo began, quietly, before Garrett cut him off.

“You want to know what happened.”

“Well- yes,” Corvo replied. “But it’s more than that. I- I think Emily needs to know too. About everything.”

Garrett nodded slowly, turning his head to look pensively out the window. Something passed across his face; recollection, maybe, but of what Corvo didn’t know. Perhaps, also, there was _fear,_ and that worried Corvo more.

Garrett hadn’t been scared of anything, before, or he’d at least not shown it. But _now_ – recent events had shaken him to the core.

The door opened, revealing Emily herself; she offered them a smile as she strode in, followed by a pair of servants bearing trays.

“I thought we could all do with some food,” she said, as the trays were set down on the table between them. “I’m told the broth is for you, Garrett.”

Said broth was carefully placed in front of him; Corvo noted the servant both trying and failing not to stare at the meal’s recipient.

“Thank you,” Emily said to the pair, dismissing them.

“Well, this is-“ Garrett broke off for a moment –“unexpected,” he settled on.

“Food?” Corvo asked.

“Dining with an Empress, no less,” Garrett replied. “It’s a change from my last dining venue.”

“Which was where?” Emily asked him.

Garrett paused for a moment, left hand slowly reaching forward to pick up a chunk of bread.

“Prison,” he said simply.

There was a brief moment of silence in which Emily glanced over at Corvo. It probably didn’t go unnoticed by Garrett, but he didn’t say anything, instead apparently preferring to concentrate on his food.

They ate in silence, and Corvo did his best to ignore the fact that Garrett’s movements were slow and careful, someone having to relearn how to do something but now with limited means. The loss of the eye _had_ to be jarring, and Corvo wondered how Garrett even managed to turn his head without the world falling around him. Maybe it did – there was no way Garrett was ever going to admit how bad his plight was.

The knock at the door was something of a relief, if Corvo were honest, because he could feel the awkward tension rising between them all as they ate.

Some part of him registered the sheer, pathetic hilarity of it all. They couldn’t even _eat_ without it being somehow uncomfortable.

“Sorry to disturb,” Curnow said, poking his head around the door, “but I’ve got someone here who wishes to talk to you all.”

He stepped inside the room, bringing with him a tall man, dressed in a heavy dark coat and a whaling mask.

Corvo rose instantly, drawing his sword and unfolding it on pure instinct.

“Captain Curnow-“ he began, but was cut off by Curnow waving his hands.

“Before you get your knickers in a twist,” the captain said, cutting himself off momentarily when his eyes fell on Emily, “uh- pardon, Lady Emily- but I _did_ search him before I brought him in. Thoroughly. Twice. He’s not hiding any weapons anywhere.”

Corvo’s hand flexed around his sword, unwilling to let his guard down just this yet. He’d placed the lantern as Thomas had requested, but he’d not _expected_ the assassin to simply _show up_ in his chambers.

“Empress,” Thomas nodded his head. “Lord Protector. I can assure you that I am here only to talk.”

“Thomas,” Garrett greeted, absently waving his good hand. “Pull up a chair. Ignore Lord Protector Zealous over here.”

If Thomas was amused by Garrett’s words, he didn’t show it; instead stepping carefully into the room behind Curnow. He made no further move, however, waiting on Emily or Corvo to speak.

Emily, for her part, glanced to Corvo, who peered at Thomas again.

_“Secrets so well kept,”_ the Heart whispered. _“Some that even I cannot discern.”_

“If you try _anything,_ Whaler,” Corvo said, slowly, carefully. “Know that I will ensure that neither you nor the rest of your group will survive the retribution I will bring.”

There was a beat of silence, in which Thomas nodded again.

“Well,” Curnow said, “now we’re all settled, I’ll leave you to it. I’ll have some men stationed outside the door. Oh, and mister, uh” – he waved in Thomas’ general direction – “your things are just by the door here.”

Said things were a small pile of what looked like books and other assorted items, and a rolled up tube of paper of somekind.

If Corvo had thought the silence awkward before, now it was unbearably so.

“I’m glad to see you’re well,” Thomas said to Garrett, who acknowledged him with a nod.

“I should thank you,” he replied. “You owed me nothing but you put yourself at great personal risk to bring me here. I- I wasn’t expecting that,” he added, quieter.

“I think we’ve all experienced things we didn’t expect recently,” Emily said, interrupting. “Mister- Thomas, was it?” she asked, addressing the assassin directly, receiving a nod in return.

“If you’re planning on staying by the door, then that’s fine, but at least take a chair. You’re making Corvo antsy.”

Corvo frowned, turning to Emily for a moment.

“Emily-“ he began, but was cut off when she held up a hand.

“Corvo,” she said. “I know what you’re going to say. And while, _yes,_ having him here isn’t exactly my favourite thing right now, I can at least see that he is here for some other reason than to remind me of the day mother died.”

Corvo noticed Thomas stiffen slightly at her words, but he made no reply, instead slowly crossing the room and pulling a chair from the table. He sat a careful distance away, enough that Corvo could see his hands and be ready if he made any sudden moves.

Thomas’ actions seemed genuine. But _seemed_ wasn’t exactly satisfactory in Corvo’s book.

“So far, he has acted honourably. And Garrett is right that it probably cost him and his people a great deal to bring him here. So-“ Emily took a breath, giving Corvo insight into how much this was probably paining her to say it. “So I think we can afford to give him some- some of our confidence.”

It had probably taken a lot for her to say that.

She was so much like her mother. Always willing to see the best.

And what else could Corvo do, but fold away his sword and silently take his seat again?

“You’re fifteen, right?” Garrett asked suddenly; Emily frowned, but nodded in return. “You’ve the wisdom and grace of someone far older, Lady Emily.”

“Well-“ Emily replied, blushing slightly. “I- I guess I learned from the best people, then.”

“Thank you,” Thomas said, quietly, “for your- graciousness,” he said eventually. “I know this must be difficult for you.”

“Difficult times necessitate difficult measures,” Garrett said. “And believe me when I say times are extremely difficult right now.”

He stretched out his hand, examining the bandage that covered it, before looking up at the other three.

“It’s time I told you what happened. The problem is, I don’t know where to start,” he admitted.

“We should start,” Corvo said, “at the very beginning. We need to tell Emily everything.”

A beat of silence followed his statement; Emily turned to face him, a curious expression on her face.

“Finally going to tell me your secrets?” she asked him.

“Not all of them,” he replied, quietly, but offering her a smile as he did so.

“Where even _is_ the start of our grand tale?” Garrett asked.

Corvo frowned for a moment, before asking:

“Emily. What do you know about the Outsider?”

* * *

 

“So- so let me get this straight,” Emily said, looking between them, a good while later. “The Outsider brought you from _another world_ – a world _beyond_ the Void – to retrieve a- a- mystical gemstone.”

“Well when you put it like _that_ it sounds stupid,” Garrett muttered. “But, yes. I’m from… elsewhere.”

“So much about you makes sense now,” Thomas said, quietly.

“And then The Outsider… _branded_ you?” Emily asked Corvo, who nodded in return, flexing the fingers of his left hand as he did so.

“Technically he did it before I met Garrett, but it happened around the same time,” he said.

“Okay,” Emily said, slowly, “why are you here now, then?” she asked Garrett. “ _How_ did you get here now?”

“That’s a question with an… uncertain answer,” Garrett said. “But I’ll start from the beginning.”

A rattle against the window drew their attention; they looked up to see that it had started to rain, turning the sky outside grey and dark.

“I was on a job,” Garrett began. “To uh- _infiltrate-“_

“I know you’re a thief, Garrett,” Emily cut in. “I’m not ten anymore – and you weren’t exactly _subtle_ about it.”

Garrett nodded, a quiet laugh rising in his throat.

“Right,” he said. “Well, Basso – he’s my fence – got hold of a client who wanted a sword that belonged to a noble by the name of Bafford. He lives in an estate in the South Quarter – large, well-guarded and difficult to penetrate. Challenging, but an enjoyable one, and Basso knew I’d be best suited for it. I spent a week scouting the place, discovered a wellshaft that’d take me to the basement, and planned from there. And by all accounts, the whole thing went off without a hitch. I made it into the manor, and up to Bafford’s treasury. And then-“

He broke off, gazing out at the rain outside.

“I should have seen it was a trap,” he said. “The place was too quiet and things went _too_ well. But I didn’t, and- and I was attacked by something. Something unnatural; magic made of vines. Made by _her.”_

He fell silent; Corvo shared a glance with Emily, but neither of them spoke. Thomas, masked as he was, was unreadable, but Corvo noted the tension in his body, like he knew what was coming next.

“They took me to the Cradle,” Garrett said. “A prison. Generally viewed as the worst lodgings in the city. I would have been able to handle it – I’ve broken out of prisons before – but-“

“But you encountered someone you did not expect,” Thomas said, quietly. Garrett looked up, glancing at the masked man sitting near him, before nodding.

“I was expecting the Thief-Taker General,” Garrett said; Corvo recalled Garrett’s description of the head of the City guard, and the man’s single-minded crusade to capture Garrett and probably kill him for some past crime. “And _him_ I knew how to handle. _This”_ – he waved his bandaged hand – “was always a possibility. But I wasn’t expecting Delilah.”

“Delilah who?” Corvo asked.

“Copperspoon,” was the answer, but _not_ from Garrett. It was Thomas who spoke instead. At Corvo’s look, he elaborated. “I’ve encountered her before.”

“She was Marked,” Garrett said, forestalling any question of Corvo’s. “And she was powerful – more powerful than you or Daud or- or anyone else I’ve seen before. And those- those _vines;_ they could burn through your skin and- and she got into my _head-_ ”

Garrett’s eye closed, briefly, body tense as he recalled some recent event. Corvo’s eyes picked out what Sokolov had previously identified as rope marks winding around his forearms and neck – but they’d been made by _vines_ instead.

“She was _searching_ through my memories. She wanted the Primal. The full stone – including-“

He cut himself off again, swallowing.

“Including the piece in your eye,” Corvo confirmed.

“She- she put it into some kind of device. I don’t know what it was. I was- busy, at the time. But the _device_ was magical, that much I know.”

“How did she get to- to the City?” Corvo asked him. “It’s not like we can hop between worlds to reach each other.”

“I don’t know,” Garrett said. “I managed to piece together a few things, but _how_ Delilah got to the City is beyond me. But she was definitely not there out of choice – when I mentioned certain things she seemed angry about being cut off.”

“I might have an answer to that,” Thomas countered, standing up.

He moved slowly, aware of Corvo’s watchful gaze, crossing to his small pile of items and picking up the rolled tube. He twisted his hands around the parchment, seeming unsure for a moment.

“I- it is difficult to know where to start,” he admitted. “For all I’ve learned here today, what I have to offer in return is- is a return to a past most of us would prefer to forget.”

He sighed, briefly, coming back to stand behind his chair.

“Corvo,” he began. “Did you ever meet Delilah Copperspoon – Anton Sokolov’s old apprentice?”

Corvo frowned for a moment, before recalling: “Jessamine spoke of her a few times. I- I think they knew each other in childhood, but the relationship had- _soured_ somehow. She was never mentioned often; I never met her, if that’s what you’re asking. I’d forgotten about her, honestly.”

Thomas nodded.

“Delilah came to our attention five years ago. Just after the death of the Empress.”

There was a moment of silence.

“The two are connected,” Corvo surmised.

“Yes,” Thomas said. “Our old master. Daud,” he said, quieter, clearly aware of the company he was in. “After- after the death of the Empress, he was different. Changed, somehow. And one day he came to us with a name – _Delilah._ We were to scour the city for it, find a lead.”

“Who gave him the name?” Emily said, her tone carefully even, although Corvo noted the faint strain underneath it – they were talking about her mother’s murderer, after all.

“The Outsider,” Thomas said. “Daud was one of his chosen few, too, but I think the Outsider hadn’t spoken to him in a long time. The death of Jessamine Kaldwin must have been some sort of catalyst. In any case, it took us six months to find something workable. A ship belonging to Bundry Rothwild.”

“Of the Rothwild Slaughterhouse?” Corvo asked. “Didn’t he go missing around that time?”

He recalled a boat journey and the sight of a whaling ship, Samuel telling him that Rothwild had disappeared.

“He did. There was a strike at the yard; a division between the factory workers and the butchers. Daud found Rothwild and got the information he needed, and packed him into a live animal crate bound for Tyvia.”

“He murdered him, you mean,” Emily said.

“With respect, Empress,” Thomas said. “You never saw the inside of that slaughterhouse. What Rothwild got was a mercy compared to what he was inflicting on his workers. And the slaughterhouse is better for it.”

Corvo narrowed his eyes at the assassin, but was only met with the impassive stare of his mask.

“What did Daud find out?” Garrett asked, breaking the ice-cold silence.

“The _Delilah_ was a whaling ship that once belonged to Arnold Timsh, a barrister who lived in the Legal District at the time. Timsh had been… taken in by Delilah, convinced to make her the sole recipient of his mother’s will. When she had what she needed, she left. We were ready to track her down again, but we then had problems of our own.”

“Problems?” Corvo asked, curious despite himself.

“We were betrayed,” Thomas said. “Daud’s second-in-command, Billie Lurk. She’d noticed Daud’s change after- after the Empress. Decided that he’d grown weak, and the Whalers needed a new leader. Delilah had seen the opportunity to eliminate a thorn in her side, and exploited it; Lurk gave up the location of our hideout to the Overseers. They attacked us while we were distracted with Delilah.”

“There were Overseers in the Flooded District,” Garrett said suddenly. “When we were there.”

“What you saw were the last remnants of a full-scale raid. We- we were overwhelmed, quickly. Many of us were captured and were to be hauled off to Holger Square, or the Heretic Cells in Coldridge. But Daud managed to repel them and regain control. Lurk admitted her betrayal, and then Delilah revealed herself to us; threatened Daud to stop meddling in her affairs. She disappeared, after that, but the threat was clear.”

“What happened to Lurk?” Emily asked.

“After she confessed, she offered her sword to Daud. He let her go. He always did have a soft spot when it came to her,” he said, somewhat sadder in tone.

It was interesting, Corvo supposed, to see something different to impassive neutrality in Thomas’ voice. The Whalers had continued after Daud had left – and after Daud’s potential replacement had left, too. Thomas had had a large void to fill when Daud had been deposed; larger than Corvo had previously thought.

“So what was it Delilah was planning? _Why_ did the Outsider give him her name?” Corvo asked.

“We tracked Delilah to outside of the city. Do you know Brigmore Manor?” Thomas asked.

“Vaguely,” Corvo admitted. “It used to belong to a noble family, but they died out a long time ago. It’s a ruin now, right?” he asked. Thomas nodded in acknowledgement.

“Brigmore Manor is a day’s boat ride upriver from here,” he said, explaining to Emily and Garrett. “Delilah based herself there, created a coven in a similar way to Daud recruiting us into _his_ fold. We made to follow; Daud made a deal with the leader of the Dead Eels to procure us a boat to get there.”

“That’s how you know Lizzy Stride,” Corvo said. “And why you were travelling away from the city the other day.”

“Yes. We occasionally send groups to check the Manor, but I needed to see myself if anything had changed there.”

“Had it?” Garrett asked.

“The Manor is a desolate place,” Thomas replied eventually. “Part swamp, part graveyard, and all falling into ruin. But it was secluded enough that Delilah was close to executing her plan without being discovered. I went to the Manor to see if she had escaped there, but also to retrieve this.”

He grasped one end of the paper tube, unfurling it so the others could see.

“Is that- me?” Emily asked, gazing at the sketch imposed upon the paper. An artist’s sketch – a trial run before they were to start a painting. Corvo had seen many similar ones in Sokolov’s home and studio before. The paper was old, but the lines were clear to see, and Corvo admitted it was a very startling likeness of a ten-year-old Emily.

“Yes,” Thomas said. “And this is nothing compared to the painting Delilah was producing.”

“To what end?” Corvo asked.

“She was painting a likeness of Emily,” Thomas began, “with the intention of possessing Emily herself and ruling the Empire.”

Corvo had expected something sinister, but _that?_

“That makes sense,” Garrett said suddenly, quietly.

“It does?” Emily asked.

Garrett nodded in return.

“When- when Delilah tried to- when her _vines_ tried to work their way in my head- I- I had a reaction, of sorts. I still had my eye and the stone in it, and it clearly didn’t like what she was doing. And instead of seeing what _she_ wanted, I saw- I saw _her_ life. Or, parts of it.”

He closed his eyes, apparently trying to remember what he’d seen. Corvo wondered if it was similar to the flashes of memory _he’d_ seen in the other shard of Primal stone.

“I saw an old manor house. Overseers. _Daud._ And- and when I was in the Flooded District five years ago, they were discussing Brigmore Manor,” Garrett said.

“That’s right,” Thomas said. “We were clearing the house when you were brought in.”

“But- but _why_ would Delilah want that?” Corvo asked. “What sort of person could even _do_ that?”

“She- she said she wanted what was _rightly hers,”_ Garrett said. “And she certainly has no qualms about using whatever means necessary to achieve her goal.”

“So what happened?” Emily asked.

“Delilah’s magic relied on painting,” Thomas said. “I never saw the true extent of her work, but Daud described it, once. Delilah had somehow managed to create a portal to the realm of the Outsider – the Void. From there she was going to conduct a ritual and possess Lady Emily’s form. But Daud managed to interrupt it, and trapped Delilah inside one of her own works, inside the Void. And then _we_ destroyed her- her _doorway_ to the Void. There was no way out, and no way for her to try to possess Emily again.”

“Do you have any other way to prove what you are saying is true?” Corvo asked, after a moment.

Part of him wanted to trust Thomas – truly the man had shown him nothing but honesty these past few days – but there was another part of him that still remembered the sight of assassins at the gazebo in the grounds of the Tower.

Thomas rose again, crossing the room to where his items had been placed. He picked up two leather-bound books, one slightly more worn-looking than the other, as well as a card. He placed the books – they appeared to be journals – on the table.

“Do you have an audiograph player?” he asked, waving the card.

“On the desk,” Corvo told him.

Thomas nodded, moved to the desk and inserted the card. And Corvo heard a voice he’d not heard in five years – one he’d never _expected_ to hear again.

_“No-one will know exactly what it took to save Emily Kaldwin from a living death as Delilah’s puppet,”_ said Daud, in the recording. Judging by the slight stiffening in Emily’s spine, she recognised the voice, too. _“No-one except the Outsider, who watches everything and thinks his own dark thoughts and speaks to few in any generation. I’ve learned that our choices always matter to someone, somewhere. And sooner or later – in ways we can’t always fathom – the consequences come back to us.”_

Corvo recalled Garrett saying something similar, years ago, back in the Flooded District.

_“I came to Dunwall from Serkonos as a boy,”_ the recording continued. _“One of the few who’ve heard the Outsider’s voice. I murdered an empress – but saved her daughter, who will one day rule the Empire. Those were my choices. I’m ready for what comes.”_

The recording finished, leaving the room cold and silent save for the sound of the rain against the windows.

“Why- why would he want to save me?” Emily asked, quietly. “He- he murdered mother.”

“He killed the Empress for coin,” Garrett told her, “in the same way I’m paid to rob the houses of well-to-do people. To do what we do requires discipline. You can’t think about what the effects of your crimes are. You do the job you’re paid for, and then you move on to the next. For him, this simply could have been the next job. But- but Daud knew the former Empress was different. When _we_ met him, he was plagued by guilt. Practically waiting to die by Corvo’s sword.”

“And did you kill him?” Emily asked, turning to Corvo.

Corvo didn’t reply for a moment, left hand clenching into a fist. He remembered the Flooded District; the betrayal by the Loyalists that led to him meeting the man who tore Jessamine from the world. The crumbling ruins that a shadowy band of assassins made home. But most of all he remembered the bloodied and beaten man, kneeling in front of a bright white statue of Jessamine, asking for his life to be spared.

“No,” he said, quietly. “I didn’t.”

Some expression crossed Emily’s face – somewhere between confusion and hurt and maybe even _anger_ all rolled into one.

He didn’t know whether she would forgive him for that.

“He made that recording the day you arrived in the district,” Thomas said to Corvo, when Emily didn’t reply. “His last recording. But-“

He stepped around the desk, back to his chair, gesturing to the two books on the table.

“If you require more proof, I brought Daud’s journal. And mine,” he added. “I can also provide you with two witnesses to Delilah’s- her _masterwork,_ as it was called.”

“Witnesses?” Garrett asked; even Corvo was curious at who Thomas could produce.

The Whaler nodded.

“I can have them brought here – unarmed, of course – if you wish to speak to them,” he said. “Or we could go to a more… _neutral_ place, if you require.”

“Bring them here,” Emily said, before anyone else could speak. “I want to hear what they have to say.”

“Emily,” Corvo began, “you can’t just-“

“I _can,_ Corvo,” she replied, cutting him off. “I’m Empress, remember?”

“You’re _inviting_ assassins into the Tower. Putting your trust _blindly-_ “

“I’m inviting people who can corroborate _his_ words,” Emily said, nodding to Thomas. “I know you don’t trust him – neither do I – but right now _you_ haven’t exactly shown me the greatest amount of trust either. You’ve held on to these secrets for _five years –_ secrets about my mother, and Daud, and _you._ So for you to speak of _blind trust_ is-“

She broke off for a moment, suddenly aware of the other two present in the room.

“I would have thought,” she said, tightly, “that Admiral Havelock had taught you the perils of blind trust.”

Corvo opened his mouth to respond, but snapped it shut, instead letting the room fill with a tense, uncomfortable silence.

He’d been about to say that it wasn’t the same, that he’d been keeping secrets to protect _Emily,_ not himself. Everything he’d done had been _good,_ had been _better_ than the Loyalists and their ultimately destructive plans. Havelock had _betrayed_ them, putting his own intentions first and-

And he’d thought them _good_ intentions, right up until he’d plunged from the peak of the Kingsparrow Lighthouse.

He looked down, at his own hands, left fist clenched so tightly the knuckles were white. The brand imposed upon his skin flickered for a moment, the same bright white, the only outward betrayal of how deeply Emily’s words had cut.

Because, when Corvo thought about it more, she was _right._

He shifted in his seat slightly, kept his gaze down.

“As you wish, Empress,” he said eventually, quietly.

At a nod from Emily, Thomas crossed the room, to stand by one of the rain-lashed windows. Not perturbed by the weather, he cranked it open, sticking one gloved hand outside. A signal of some sort. Corvo supposed it would have been naïve to think Thomas didn’t have others watching the Tower while he was inside.

Two people materialised next to him – one holding onto the arm of the other, Corvo noticed. Both wore masks and similar coats, and they were both unarmed. Still, it didn’t stop Corvo from warily rising, hand straying to his sword _just in case._

“Master,” they acknowledged Thomas with a short salute, before doing the same for Emily.

“Avery,” Thomas greeted, pulling the window closed. “Leandra. Did Rinaldo fill you in?”

“Yes, sir,” the one named Avery replied. Leandra nodded in agreement, turning her head to gaze at the rest of the room’s occupants.

“Lady Emily and Lord Corvo I’m sure you’ll recognise,” Thomas said, by way of introduction. “It is by Lady Emily’s grace that you are here. Do not abuse her hospitality.”

His tone was as neutral as ever, but even Corvo could detect the hint of threat in there. Perhaps, he mused inwardly as he sat down again, a certain _re-evaluation_ of Thomas was needed. He’d always imagined Daud ruling his band with something between fear and an iron grip of control. He’d been somewhat surprised his lieutenant had managed to hold the band together these past five years.

But maybe Thomas wasn’t so different to Daud after all.

“This is Garrett,” Thomas continued, gesturing. “I’m sure you’ve heard the others speak of him.”

“Rowan and Geoff have yet to shut up about him,” Leandra commented drily, speaking for the first time.

“Empress,” Avery bowed shortly, “it is an honour to meet you.”

“You will forgive me, Mister Avery, if I do not yet say the same,” Emily replied.

“Master,” Leandra said, stepping forward. “Rinaldo told us that we were required here to discuss past matters; those relating to Brigmore. If I may- _what_ exactly is going on?”

“There are rumours among the others, sir,” Avery added. “That the- the _witch_ has returned.”

“The matter is- complicated,” Thomas settled on. “Suffice it to say she will not be returning to Dunwall.”

“But we still need to know everything about her and her abilities,” Garrett said. “She’s going to cause significant problems somewhere else otherwise.”

“We’d also like to know what Daud did in Brigmore Manor,” Corvo said.

“Avery,” Thomas said. “You go first. They may trust your word more.”

He gestured to his now-vacant chair, apparently preferring that he and Leandra stayed closer to the window.

Avery was an assassin, but there was a certain _wariness_ to the way he crossed the room, as if he were unsure where to put himself. He took his seat, perching on the edge of the chair, clasping his gloved hands together.

“If I-“ he reached up, for his mask, and at a nod from Thomas removed it, revealing a man who looked as though he were in his late twenties or early thirties. His hair was a bright blond, suggesting to Corvo that he may have boasted ancestry from Morley once. His eyes were blue, but there was _something_ about them that made his overall appearance seem far older; he was _haunted_ by something.

(Corvo recognised it because he saw the same look in his own eyes whenever he looked into a mirror.)

“My name is Avery Pradclif,” the assassin began, hands twisting themselves around his mask. It was odd to hear his voice clearly, no longer muffled by the filter. “I was once a member of the Abbey of the Everyman. I served under High Overseer Campbell while he was in power – I was there for his downfall, too.”

Corvo frowned – a former _Overseer?_ Thomas certainly had produced a surprising witness, and both of them knew Corvo could easily check with High Overseer Durant to see if an Overseer by the name of Pradclif did once exist.

“How does an Overseer become an assassin?” Garrett asked. “Especially considering the nature of the group you now belong to.”

“Five years ago,” Pradclif said, “my partner – Brother Marcus – and I were patrolling the Mutcherhaven District. The usual sort of thing, searching the estates for heretical artefacts and the like. But we ran into difficulty. A group of witches descended upon us, captured us as easy as rats. Our training was _nothing_ to them. We recited the Strictures and they _laughed._ ”

He broke off, suddenly, face stricken with some terrible recollection. He looked down at the mask in his hands, gripping the edges tightly.

“They- they took us to a manor house. Brigmore. And then- it- I-“

“Take your time, Avery,” Thomas said, quietly. Corvo glanced up at the other man, noted the tension and _sorrow_ in his body.

Nobody spoke as Avery drew in a long, shuddering breath.

“They- the witches wanted information. Anything I could give them about the Abbey. And- and _Marcus-_ he- I-“

He cut himself off with a choked sound, Corvo noticed Emily’s hand twitch, as if she’d made an aborted move to reach across the table and _comfort_ the man.

_“Restrict- restrict the Rampant Hunger,”_ Avery said, voice barely a whisper; Corvo recognised it as one of the Seven Strictures _. “For what goes into- into your body, poisons you, and if you eat filth then filth is what you will vomit up.”_

“They forced him to eat his companion,” Thomas said, equally quiet. “Made him renounce the Strictures and very nearly tore his mind from the world.”

Emily’s hand came up to cover her mouth, even Garrett looked horrified by the revelation. Corvo’s stomach was churning uncomfortably, but he kept his expression neutral.

“They kept me in a room on the upper floors,” Avery managed eventually. “I could hear them moving around all the time. And _always_ they were talking about _her._ Delilah and her painting, and how the Kaldwin girl fit in to it all. Part me knew that I should escape, try and stop the plan, whatever it was. But I _couldn’t._ Couldn’t _think_ or _do_ or-“

“Nobody is blaming you, Avery,” Leandra said softly, sorrowfully. She stepped forward, round the table, placing her hand upon the shaking man’s shoulder. He reached up, briefly, grasped at it, before nodding to himself.

“Daud came, soon after,” he said. “I’d heard the stories – the famous Knife of Dunwall, leader of a band of heretics – but to see someone that- that _wasn’t_ one of those witches, or Brother Marcus in my dreams- it was like salvation. He- he _saved_ me,” Avery said, looking up, eyes shining bright with tears. “An Overseer, of all people. He- he brought me outside the Manor, to his people. To Thomas.”

“We took him back to Dunwall,” Thomas said. “Patched his wounds and did our best with- with the rest. He found a place among us, and I saw no reason to refuse him.”

“I couldn’t go back to the Abbey,” Avery said. “Not- not after that. And the Whalers treated me like an equal from the start. I had nowhere else to go, in the end. And-“ he smiled, briefly. “And they needed somebody to train the dogs.”

“Damn mutts don’t listen to anyone else now,” Leandra said, but there was something affectionate in it.

“If- if Delilah is back, somehow,” Avery said, tone serious all of a sudden, something hard coming into his expression. “Then know that all who follow her will do whatever is necessary, without remorse. They will stop at nothing to achieve their goal, and they’ll commit _heinous_ acts in her name. If- if it came to me choosing between facing Delilah and _the Outsider himself,_ then- then I would willingly walk into the Outsider’s domain.”

Corvo settled back into his seat, mind twisting itself with the new information. If a former Overseer was willing to face the most hated deity of his order over Delilah, then-

Then Delilah was a greater threat than Corvo had originally considered.

“Thank you, Avery,” Thomas said, as the assassin pulled his mask back on. “I know that this is difficult for you; we appreciate your courage.”

Emily nodded, quickly, as Avery rose.

“Just promise me that you’ll ensure Delilah doesn’t do to anyone what she had done to me,” he said.

“I’ll make sure of it,” Garrett said, darkly.

A knock at the door made Corvo start, suddenly; they turned to see Sokolov entering the room.

At the sight of the three assassins, he paused, mouth falling open slightly, but he managed to collect himself.

“My apologies for the interruption,” he said, “but Garrett’s bandages need changing.”

He moved quickly across the room, very much aware of the Whalers stood next to the window; Avery and Leandra moving to join Thomas and clear a space around Garrett.

“We can give you some privacy, if you wish,” Thomas said, but Garrett waved a hand.

“It’s fine,” he said. “Faster for you to stay, and you’ve probably seen it all before.”

“Lady Emily?” Sokolov asked.

“I’ll be fine,” she said; Corvo didn’t try to force the issue. If she wanted to stay, so be it.

Sokolov swallowed audibly, acutely aware of his larger-than-expected audience (and trying not to stare at the assassins), before instructing Garrett to turn around in his seat and remove his shirt.

(The shirt had belonged to Corvo – it was overlarge and ill-fitting, but it served its purpose well enough.)

Garrett moved slowly, gingerly, using only his left hand. He gripped the shirt tightly, wincing as Sokolov gently peeled the bandages away.

The wounds didn’t look as terrible as they did when Garrett had first arrived, but Corvo’s stomach still twisted at the sight of the lashes embossed into the skin of Garrett’s back. Some of them still glimmered red with blood, and it was these that Sokolov tended to, filling a bowl in the nearby sink and wetting a cloth to clean them.

“These are healing well,” he commented, more to fill the silence than anything. Garrett nodded in return; Corvo could see the way his jaw clenched in pain, though.

The welts would scar, Corvo knew. He had his own set, after all, received during his time at Coldridge.

After his back came an examination of Garrett’s right hand. Corvo could see that Sokolov was trying to be as gentle as possible – perhaps aware of both the assassins _and_ the empress watching him work – but Corvo could tell even the slightest movement of the hand was immensely painful.

Sokolov moved to redress the hand, but Garrett pulled it out of his grip to examine it closely.

The hand, if possible, looked worse than Garrett’s back. The skin was red and blistered, the entire hand swollen and peeling. Every time his fingers twitched, Corvo could see Garrett’s features flicker – _every_ movement was causing him pain.

“How bad is it?” Garrett asked, quietly, passing his hand back to Sokolov.

“It’s technically not as bad as it looks,” Sokolov said. “The outer layers of skin are most affected; in time they’ll shed and newer skin will grow underneath. However, between now and then will likely be a great amount of time and pain. You should be glad, though – the fact you can feel the pain means that your hand is still in good working order. It will scar, unfortunately, but you should regain full mobility in time.”

Garrett nodded, apparently surprised at the somewhat good outcome.

“How did you get the tar off?” he asked, in the end.

“Whale oil,” Sokolov told him, ignoring the incredulous look on Garrett’s face as he rewrapped the hand in a fresh bandage. “I would keep it covered,” he added, “the new skin will likely be fragile.”

Garrett nodded to himself, and the room lapsed into silence again.

“Ask your questions, Sokolov,” Garrett said, after Sokolov glanced nervously around the room for about the third time while tying the bandage off. “I can feel you practically bursting to ask them.”

Sokolov _floundered_ for a brief moment, apparently not expecting to be called out in front of their audience, but he recovered well.

“I must admit, I am confused- _why_ the tar?” he asked. “Most everything else of your injuries is understandable. But to tar a man’s hand?”

Garrett blinked, apparently not expecting that question.

“What’s the punishment for thieves here?” he asked.

“Imprisonment,” Corvo said. “The same as anyone else.”

“Where I’m from,” Garrett said, “the only thing as old as the thieves’ profession is the punishment to match it. _Blackhanding –“_ the word sounded bitter and distasteful on his tongue “ – is rendered as an art form among certain sections of the guard. A thief who’s been blackhanded is less likely to steal again – mostly because they’ll never get full use of the hand back.”

“It makes sense, in its own barbaric way,” Thomas said, making Sokolov jump – he’d apparently forgotten the assassins were there.

“So they put your hand in tar,” Emily said, “and let you go?”

Garrett snorted, the action changing into a cough.

“No,” he said. “I was actually on my way to execution when I escaped.”

“Your- _what?”_ Corvo asked, unable to stop himself.

“It may come as a surprise to you,” Garrett began evenly, “but I am _quite_ a prolific thief. Last I looked there was around a hundred-thousand coin bounty on me. I’ve robbed barons past and present, and about every facet of society you could imagine. And the Thief-Taker General can hold quite the grudge.”

“This isn’t a time to recite your resume,” Corvo told him; Garrett gave him a dark look in return.

“How did you escape?” Emily asked; Corvo was reminded of when she used to ask him to tell tales of derring-do, pirates and assassins and heroes. But this wasn’t a tale, this was _real,_ and evidence of the harsh realities of life was sitting in front of him now, in the form of Garrett.

“They put me in a carriage to take me to the Keep,” Garrett explained. “It was a fluke, probably – there was a loose nail on the bench. I managed to dig it out, and then picked the lock on the cuffs.”

“Impossible,” Sokolov said, dismissive. “Picking a lock is far-fetched enough, but picking one with a _nail,_ in your condition? Preposterous!”

“Bring me a nail and some locks, and I’ll happily prove you wrong,” Garrett said.

“Sokolov,” Emily said, when Sokolov opened his mouth to respond, “if there isn’t anything else you need to do then perhaps you can go and finish your- _other_ work, with Piero.”

It was an obvious dismissal, and Sokolov was in no place to question it.

“Of course, Empress,” he said, bowing slightly, before heading to the door.

“Master Sokolov-“ a voice from by the window called; Leandra, the third Whaler, stepped towards Corvo’s desk. She plucked a clean sheet of paper from the surface, quickly scribbling onto it.

“A list of ingredients,” she said, pressing the paper into the (slightly stunned) physician’s hand, “to make a salve for Master Garrett’s arms and neck.”

Garrett was in the middle of pulling his shirt back on, but even then the welts caused by Delilah’s vines were clear to see, raised red and circling his forearms. Sokolov glanced over the list, frowning slightly at what he read there, but he apparently decided to not press his luck, and quickly left the room.

“I thought Rowan was your physician,” Garrett said, eye settling on Leandra.

“He is,” the assassin confirmed, moving to take her place on the empty chair. “But I have more experience with Delilah and her craft.”

She reached up, pulled off her mask, setting it down on the table. At first glance, Corvo gauged her to be younger than Avery, and from Dunwall or at the very least the Isle of Gristol. Yet while there was something subtly unsettling about Avery and his demeanour, with Leandra it was clear to see.

Her skin was pale, but it bore a somewhat sickly-looking _tinge_ that contrasted sharply with her dark brown hair. Most prominent however, were the marks, white tracings that almost looked like tattoos, twisting around her neck and framing her face. They looked, Corvo reflected, like vines.

The first person to react was Garrett, hand snatching a silver knife from the table while he simultaneously rose from his chair. He darted backwards, and Corvo was momentarily impressed with his speed and range of movement, considering Garrett’s injuries, before he caught the look on Garrett’s face.

The most prominent expression was _fear,_ which was disconcerting enough. But there was also a hint of panic, and no small amount of pain as the speed of his movements aggravated his injuries.

“You- you’re-“ he began, holding out the knife in some sort of defensive position.

“Yes,” Leandra said. “I must look like her.”

“Garrett?” Corvo asked, trying to not let his worry show.

“I- she-“ Garrett closed his eye, taking a deep breath and slowly letting the knife go. It dropped with a faint rattle, and he ran his good hand across the uncovered part of his face.

Thomas made to move, but Garrett flinched at the sound, so he stepped back, leaving the area around Garrett clear.

“I used to belong to Delilah’s coven,” Leandra explained. “All of her witches bore a certain… _resemblance.”_ She gestured to the markings surrounding her face.

“ _Used_ to belong to?” Emily asked, as Garrett gripped the back of his chair. He didn’t quite move to sit down, but he appeared to be getting a better hold of his fear.

Leandra nodded. “Delilah recruited many into her fold, from all walks of life. I was once a serving girl to a noble whose name I don’t care to remember. Delilah offered freedom – she offered _power._ ”

“She could share her Mark,” Corvo said. “Like Daud could.”

“Yes,” Leandra confirmed. “And for the first time in my life, I could walk the city without fear. It was a _good_ life, while we had it. But then came Delilah’s plan.”

She took a breath, fixed her gaze on the table.

“I would like to say that I objected,” she began, “but the truth of the matter is I did not care so much for Delilah’s schemes. As long as it ended with the coven coming out on top, who was I to question? And- Delilah could have very easily taken away the power she freely gave. I didn’t want to go back to being a servant again. So I did what was instructed of me. And then- and then _Daud_ came to Brigmore.

“He tore down the coven in the best way he knew how – he cut off its head. We all felt the connection sever when he sealed Delilah inside the Void.” Leandra shook her head, perhaps in sadness; Corvo didn’t know. “It was a simple case of watching the pieces fall, after. Some of my sisters tried to mount a resistance, but we were no match for Daud’s people. I’d decided I’d seen enough – I would cast my lot elsewhere. And here I am now, with the very group I once swore as my hated enemy.”

She shrugged a shoulder. “I cannot change the decisions of my past. I cannot change the way I look, or the way I remind you of her cruelty,” she said to Garrett, who swallowed, hard. “And Delilah, I suspect, has not changed either. She- she was _captivating,_ and I am sure she still is. But for all her captivation, her _goals_ will outlast any alliances she will form. And you should be very, very careful of what those goals are. Last time it was an empire. This time, it will undoubtedly be larger.”

“Hearing she might still be alive doesn’t give you any desire to seek her out again?” Corvo asked, tone mild but the seriousness underneath it prevalent.

“I know what you’re trying to say, Lord Protector,” Leandra replied. “But no, I do not wish to see Delilah again. I will not betray the trust I’ve earned here. In any case, Delilah would most certainly kill me for turning against my former sisters. I much prefer my place in life now. Delilah- she gave order, and purpose, but it was limited. Eventually most of us were confined to Brigmore Manor while she painted and schemed. And in the end, I don’t even know if we ever factored in to her plans. With the Whalers, I am free to choose.”

“Within reason,” Thomas said quietly, but there was a hint of humour in his tone. Leandra inclined her head a fraction.

“So what Mister Thomas has told us is true,” Emily said. “Delilah wanted to control the Empire by taking control of me.”

“Yes,” Leandra said. “She was painting a portrait of you – she’d even fashioned a paintbrush from your hair. When it was complete she was going to conduct a ritual inside the Void and break your spirit under hers.”

“But Daud stopped her,” Corvo said, “and sealed her inside the Void instead. Inside the realm of the Outsider.”

“And the Outsider,” Garrett said slowly, something akin to realisation in his tone, “made no move to aid her.”

He sat down in his chair, slowly, drawing everyone’s gaze as he did so.

“Delilah doesn’t want an Empire anymore,” he said. “She wants the Outsider.”

* * *

 

“Again! And this time I want to see you _parry!”_

The swords clashed, flashing brightly in the sun. Garrett watched intently, noting the concentration on Emily’s face, contrasting with the almost _bored_ expression on Corvo’s.

A ruse, he knew, to goad her into action.

And while Emily was good with a sword, she still fell into the simplest of traps. Corvo’s apparent lack of care annoyed her, so she struck first, fast. Too fast, too much weight behind it. Corvo blocked her easily, and returned with his own sword. Emily did manage to parry the strike, but wasn’t ready for the follow-up, and soon her sword found itself on the ground.

“That’s not fair!” she exclaimed, annoyed, hands on her hips.

“Sword fighting generally isn’t,” Corvo replied. “You’re distracted – and distractions mean that you’re more likely to slip up. Which you just did.”

It was the day after their long discussion inside Dunwall Tower. The rains had cleared, and today was colder, but Garrett had been glad to get outside after spending so long confined indoors. Corvo had decided today was good enough for a sword lesson with Emily. And while he was a _good_ teacher, Garrett could also see he was an infuriating one.

“What he’s saying,” Garrett said, hauling himself up from his seat and stepping into the open space, “is that you have to control your emotions. In a fight, _any_ emotion can make you reckless. Even the good ones.”

He picked up Emily’s sword, turning it over in his hand.

“Good blade,” he commented, slashing the air a few times with it, wincing when it pulled on the muscles of his back.

“Do you know how to fight with a sword?” Emily asked.

“A little,” he admitted. “Not as good as you or Corvo, but enough to keep myself alive. And it’s not the _clean_ sort of fighting that a fencing instructor will teach you.”

“As long as it keeps you alive,” Corvo said.

Garrett nodded his head in agreement, stepping up to Emily and handing her the sword.

“Remember,” he told her, quietly, “in a fight, the only goal is to survive it longer than your opponent. Corvo is stronger than you, but you’re smaller and more agile. Use that against him. Make _him_ distracted. When he goes for you again-“

He leaned closer, whispered an instruction in her ear, before stepping back.

“Should I be worried?” Corvo asked, readying his sword.

“Probably,” Garrett told him, standing a respectable distance away, as Emily prepared her own blade, determination now etched upon her face.

The duo met again, and Garrett could see the focus both of them had as their blades clashed together. Corvo came at Emily again; she parried, and was ready for his follow up this time.

And then, she darted forward, and brought her knee up swiftly between Corvo’s legs.

To his credit, Corvo didn’t fall over, or crumple to the ground. He did… _buckle,_ slightly, eyes starting to water as Emily’s surprise attack registered. Garrett couldn’t stop himself – he chuckled, watching Corvo’s mouth form into a tight, hard line, no doubt holding back several strings of colourful curses probably aimed in his direction.

“I win!” Emily called, triumphantly, snatching Corvo’s sword from his grip.

Garrett’s laughter grew, and he found himself unable to hide his grin as Corvo regained his stance.

“ _You-“_ he said, looking to Garrett, “ _you_ put her up to this.”

“Remember, Emily,” Garrett said, choosing to ignore Corvo. “There’s no such thing as fighting _dirty._ It doesn’t matter how honourably you win – just _win.”_

“If you weren’t injured I’d show you exactly how dirty we fought on Serkonos,” Corvo said, darkly, reclaiming his sword from Emily and folding it away. “Lesson over for today,” he told her.

“Should we ask the kitchen staff to send some ice?” Garrett asked, raising an eyebrow, as Emily giggled.

“Don’t push your luck,” Corvo said, but there was humour in his voice.

“Training is going well, I see,” a voice from nearby said; the three turned to see Piero stood on the nearby steps.

“Piero,” Emily said, sheathing her own sword and walking towards him. “How goes your work?”

“That’s why I’m here, actually,” he said. “We’ve finished the eye.”

“It works?” Garrett asked, unable to stop a thin thread of hope curling in his chest.

“We believe so,” Piero said. “The only way to find out is to test it.”

They started to head up the steps to the tower; Garrett had to grip on to the stonework as he moved. He could tell Corvo was watching him carefully, ready to step in if need be.

Garrett couldn’t tell if it was because of his injuries or his now more-limited vision.

Adjusting had been- difficult. He could still do most things he’d been able to before, but a lot of it required a certain amount of double-checking. Something as simple as drinking a glass of water became a laborious task involving him slowly reaching to pick up the glass, lest he knock it onto the floor. Setting the glass down was equally as frustrating, and it was compounded all the more by the fact he only had one hand to use.

He supposed he should be glad it was his left hand that was free – it lined up with his remaining eye.

But if the eye worked, then it would save Garrett a whole lot of trouble.

He was silent as they made their way to the workshop occupied by Piero and Sokolov, somewhere on the ground floor of the tower. Emily was asking Piero about various things, but he didn’t pay attention. Corvo was silent, too, although Garrett had no inclination as to his thoughts.

The workshop was brightly lit and spacious; for the most part taken up by a long table in the centre, wherein multitudes of tools were scattered haphazardly across it. Tall windows took up an entire wall on the far side of the room, providing a view across the river. As they entered, Garrett spotted Sokolov at the far end of the table, hunched over and speaking intently to a man he didn’t recognise.

“Empress!” Sokolov noticed their approach. “Lord Corvo. Master Garrett. May I introduce you to a student of mine at the Academy – Kirin Jindosh.”

“Empress,” Jindosh bowed, “it is my great honour to meet you. Lord Corvo,” he turned, holding out his hand. “Might I say how good it is to meet a fellow Serkonan in Dunwall. Far too few of us travel the world these days.”

Corvo shook his hand; “Far too few of us return, too,” he said.

There was something about Jindosh that Corvo didn’t like; Garrett could tell. He hid his unease well, though, as the others appeared not to notice it.

Garrett didn’t like Jindosh either – there was something about the way his smile seemed just _too_ sharp, and his eyes lingered on you for a fraction _too_ long.

“Indeed,” Jindosh said. “You shall have to come visit, Empress,” he turned to Emily. “I’m sure Corvo would love to return to Karnaca someday, and it would provide you with a great opportunity to see how the inventors of the South work.”

“Kirin is here because of his speciality in clockwork devices,” Sokolov said, interrupting, apparently not liking the fact the attention was drawn from him. Garrett noted that Corvo’s smile dropped when Jindosh turned back to face the table.

“Yes,” Jindosh agreed, snatching up the eye from the table’s surface, “and what a _fascinating_ specimen you brought to me. A clockwork _eye!_ A marvellous creation – _where_ did you acquire such an item?” he asked.

“The basement of an abandoned asylum,” Garrett said, seeing no reason to lie.

“Always the figure of mystery,” Jindosh said. “The famous _Garrett,_ who saved the Empress and disappeared the moment she was crowned so. Do you know anything about the original owner of this eye – or the makers? I would very much like to meet them.”

Garrett didn’t reply for a moment, scanning Jindosh properly.

(There was definitely something _unsettling_ about him, but if he’d helped in making the eye work, Garrett wasn’t going to distrust him completely just yet.

He also noticed that Jindosh hadn’t offered to shake _his_ hand.)

“The piece is a few hundred years old,” he said. “The people who could tell you anything useful about it are long dead.”

“A pity,” Jindosh said, face falling somewhat.

“In any case,” Sokolov said, “we still managed to make the eye work. The, ah- _power source_ you provided us is more than adequate.”

“It will power the eye for longer than all of our lives combined,” Piero added.

Sokolov plucked the eye from Jindosh’s grasp and crossed the room.

“Garrett, if you could sit down,” he gestured to a chair by the window. “I’ll need to examine the eye socket before I fit the device.”

Sokolov started to unwrap the bandage around the side of his head; Garrett did his best to ignore the steady churning of his stomach. He couldn’t see anyone else in the room anymore – his left side was facing the window and Sokolov was blocking any view he had on the right.

Sokolov kept his face neutral, something Garrett was grateful for, somehow. Yet, as the philosopher stepped away, he reached out and grasped his wrist.

“Wait-“ he said, quietly. “I want to see the damage, first.”

Surprisingly, Sokolov didn’t question it. He just nodded his head, reaching to the nearby table to produce a mirror, which he pressed into Garrett’s good hand.

Part of Garrett’s face was still blackened with bruises where the guards in the Cradle had beat him. His left eye was black, but he could tell that it was healing. The right side of his face was another question entirely.

Delilah, he had to grudgingly admit, had been very precise. The scar tissue that had already marred that side of his face was relatively untouched. The empty socket turned his stomach so much that he thought he was going to be sick again, but he managed to quell the urge. Using his bandaged hand, he gently prodded at the skin below the socket, noting the swollen and tender skin. Aside from that, however, there was very little damage done to that side, and now the blood had been cleaned away it looked better.

“You’re healing at a faster rate than I expected,” Sokolov said to him. “I wouldn’t have recommended testing the new eye this early, but I don’t think it is likely to cause you any more damage.”

“What should I expect?” Garrett asked, gently tracing the old scars, somewhat of a habit now.

“It will be uncomfortable,” Sokolov said. “Your body will not tolerate the foreign object to start with, but eventually it will become used to it. I would recommend that you take it out whenever you go to sleep, and the eye overall will require regular maintenance. I am certain its original owner had to perform similar tasks to keep it going. But – don’t expect to be able to wear and use it instantly. It will take time, and it will never fully be the same as your original, living eye. This creation is masterful, but it is still only a creation.”

“Perhaps,” Jindosh said, “I could take a look at its mechanism a little closer – maybe study the power source, too. I am sure I could make it _better_ than its original maker intended. If anything, the power source should be studied further. What you’ve provided is a marvel!”

“No,” Garrett said, suddenly, lowering the mirror and turning to look at Jindosh. “Do _not_ interfere with it. You understand less about it than you think you do.”

“Then give me the opportunity to learn!” Jindosh pressed.

“Master Jindosh,” Emily cut in, “would you really deprive Garrett of regaining his sight so you could study something further – and against my wishes?”

In the slightly-awkward silence that followed, Garrett noticed Corvo trying and failing to hide the smirk that crossed his features.

“I- no, your Highness,” Jindosh said, cowed.

“Let’s get this over with,” Garrett said to Sokolov; the physician nodded.

“Hold still,” he warned. “I don’t want to damage your eye any further.”

Garrett clenched his teeth together as Sokolov’s fingers drew closer to his face, before disappearing into his blind spot. There wasn’t exactly _pain_ as there was pressure around his eye socket, but the tenderness of the flesh made the discomfort greater. Garrett found his other eye closing out of reflex, as he breathed through his gritted teeth and tried not to inhale the smoke-and-oil stench that came from Sokolov’s hands.

And then the sensation was gone, and he was left with the feeling of something _other_ in his right eye socket. Both of his eyes were closed, and for a few moments he didn’t dare to open them in case the whole thing was a complete failure.

When he _did_ open his eyes, he almost had to snap them shut again. The sensation was practically overwhelming. His mind had quickly adjusted to the lack of periphery – to gain it back again in addition to the innate sense of _wrong_ where his new eye sat put everything into a confusing mixture that he was now attempting to figure out.

He blinked, rapidly, not certain whether he was attempting to dislodge the intruding object or force his mind to get used to it.

“Does it work?” Emily asked, and the fact Garrett could _see_ her asking it on his right side filled him with some kind of inexplicable _joy._

He turned to face the assembled group, mouth struggling to form words. Couldn’t find the right ones, so instead reached for the mirror and held it up to his face.

The new eye glowed in a similar manner to his original, but the blue of the Primal now intermingled with a _green_ , the two colours swirling together and reminding Garrett of swirling tides on the waterfront. The rest of the eye was silvered, and gleamed in the blueish-green light.

“It works,” he said, softly, eventually, turning to look at the group.

Emily and Corvo were both smiling, and Piero and Sokolov looked pleased with their work. Jindosh was somewhere between impressed and annoyed, he noted.

He blinked a few times more, trying to get used to the sensation, but then his vision _flickered_ into a blue hue. And suddenly-

He could see _everything._

He flinched, dropping the mirror, left hand scrambling for purchase on the desk. Sokolov moved towards him, but Garrett stopped him with his raised right hand. Closing his eyes again, he raised his left hand to cover his eyes, breath forcing itself through gritted teeth.

Slowly, he forced his eyes open again and lowered his hand. Took in the blue-tinged figures in the room; looked up and saw people walking the floor above, the corridor outside, even the _grounds._

The Void was always there. The Primal was always there. And the _gift_ given to Garrett so long ago was still there, reasserting itself. He blinked again, trying to remember how it worked, how he activated the Outsider’s Eye, but it was like relearning how to use a limb he had no instructions for-

“Garrett?” Corvo asked, concerned.

“It’s fine,” Garrett managed, in return. “I’m just- it-“

He closed his eyes again, calmed his breathing, and when he opened them again he was relieved to see that everyone was back to _normal._

No voices came with the enhanced vision. The Outsider’s _other_ gift had been silent ever since Bafford’s Manor.

“I’m fine,” he said again, clearly. “It works. It’s-“

“Difficult to adjust,” Piero supplemented after he floundered for a moment; Garrett nodded in return.

“Thank you,” Garrett all-but blurted out, before he could stop himself. “All of you- I-“

“It’s nothing,” Sokolov said, waving his hand. “It was a good opportunity to work on something new.”

“How _does_ it work, then?” Corvo asked, stepping closer. “How does it- connect?”

“It doesn’t,” Piero said.

“The original owner must have had some kind of receiver implanted into his head,” Jindosh said. “ _Very_ advanced – especially so for his time. There was some kind of transmitting device inside the eye itself, but we removed it to make room for the power source.”

“The stone itself is how it connects,” Piero said. “I recalled your original eye, Garrett, and how it had a similar stone inside it. We’ve also heard stories about Kingsparrow and what occurred there.”

Jindosh looked curious, Garrett saw; he clearly didn’t know the truth of what had occurred at the downfall of the Loyalist Conspiracy. Piero and Sokolov were more aware, but the only people who _truly_ knew were Corvo and Emily.

“Garrett’s connection to the stone helps him connect to the eye,” Emily said, slowly, surprising Garrett with her astuteness. It paid to remember and _know_ things in her game, Garrett supposed.

“Yes,” Piero agreed.

“ _To all but the Attuned, it is benign; unseen,”_ Garrett recalled Baron Northcrest’s words, some of his last. “So you’re saying it’ll only work for me?”

“Probably,” Sokolov said. “ _We_ didn’t see anything when we tested it, but _you_ say it works, so-“

“So what is it about you that’s so special?” Jindosh asked. “You, Master Garrett, are maybe a greater mystery than the tiny stone we put inside your new eye. One I would _relish_ the chance to investigate.”

“Enough, Master Jindosh,” Corvo said sharply, tone cold, as he fixed Jindosh with a _withering_ look.

Garrett stood up, reaching for the mirror again, seeing that it was now cracked in the centre. He peered at his reflection once more, at the silver-green and blue eye, and the old scars left from old wounds.

“How do I look?” he asked, eventually, turning to face Corvo and Emily.

“If you’re expecting me to think of some sort of witty reply, you’re going to be disappointed,” Corvo said.

* * *

 

He couldn’t sleep.

Garrett was generally a light sleeper; his profession meant that he had to be alert for danger most of the time, but tonight he wasn’t even certain he was going to get _any_ sleep, light or not. One reason was the state of his injuries – he couldn’t lay on his back because of the lashes, lying on his side put pain on his ribs and everything just _ached._ The right side of his face was hurting, too, moulding itself into some form of headache that pounded and throbbed across his skull.

The mechanical eye had been put into a case on the bedside table. Garrett had wanted to keep it in, but Sokolov had warned him that prolonged use would render it uncomfortable and have some nasty side effects on his general health. So while it pained him to remove it and lose part of his sight again, he acquiesced. He was going to have to live with it for his whole life; better get used to the hardships early.

The box was closed, but Garrett could still picture the faint glow the device emitted. When _wearing_ it, it was barely noticeable, akin to his old eye. But every time he saw his reflection, or when he took the eye out, he could see that it was different. And at the moment, it was still _wrong._

He’d tried to lay on his front, had shoved his arms under the soft pillows to try and remind him of his bed back at the Clock Tower. Instead, his fingers had brushed upon a talisman made of whalebone.

The room was dark and empty – it was late into the night and Dunwall Tower was quiet.

But Garrett was wide awake, turning the charm around in his fingers. Someone had placed it here; Corvo probably, but he wouldn’t rule out Thomas either. _Why_ was another question entirely, and he wouldn’t be getting the answer tonight. Wouldn’t be getting _any_ answers tonight.

The main reason he couldn’t sleep was because his mind was still stuck in the Cradle, in the _City,_ and Delilah was there, twisting and pulling _and-_

His hand clenched around the charm, and he closed his eyes for a moment, hating the way his heart was racing in fear all of a sudden.

She’d taken more than his eye.

He was drawn out of his thoughts by the sound of the door opening, and it was reflex more than anything else that forced him to move, shoving the talisman under the pillow and turning painfully onto his side. He closed his eyes, feigning sleep; he knew it was childish but he’d bared his soul enough times in the past few days to know he didn’t want to do it again.

The person who entered the room crossed with a quick-but-light step. Garrett knew it well enough to recognise it was Corvo. He didn’t seem to be heading towards the bedside but the desk on the other side of the room, instead.

It was Corvo’s room, Garrett supposed. He briefly wondered where the other man had been sleeping for the past several days.

The door had been closed behind Corvo, the other man clearly not wanting to disturb him, and Garrett heard him scribbling on some sheet of paper at the desk.

Garrett sensed the door opening again, but still nobody paid attention to his still form on the bed.

“Corvo?” hissed the voice of Emily, as she stepped into the room. “What are you _doing?”_

“Writing instructions,” Corvo said, equally as quiet, both of them aware of Garrett across the room. “ _You_ should be in bed.”

(He knew he should probably let them know he was awake, but he was more intrigued as to why they were both up more than anything.)

“I could say the same of you,” Emily replied. “What was so important that you had to come in _here?”_

“I needed my seal,” Corvo replied. “I’m leaving instructions for Curnow and the rest of the guard. The Overseers, too.”

“This couldn’t wait? Garrett’s asleep in here!”

“No,” Corvo said. “I don’t know when we’re going to leave. He- the Outsider doesn’t give notice generally.”

“This isn’t about the assassin, then?”

Garrett heard the scratching of Corvo’s pen still, for a second.

“I heard him,” Emily said. “Thomas wants to come with you. Or maybe even go in your place.”

“He makes a point, you know,” Corvo said eventually. “How can I do my job as Royal Protector when I’m a world away?”

“Corvo,” Emily said, softer. “You’re still my Protector. But you’re also Garrett’s friend, and could you honestly tell me that you _don’t_ want to go and help him? He gave everything to help _us_ five years ago. And- and the way things are _now,_ I think you’re going to need all the help you can get.”

“But _him?”_ Corvo hissed. “He’s an _assassin_ – he helped kill your mother!”

“I know, Corvo,” Emily said quietly. “I was there too.”

There was a moment of silence; Garrett heard Corvo gently place his pen back onto the desk.

“But Thomas wasn’t the one who held the sword that day,” Emily continued, still quiet. “And I think that he truly wants to help.”

“I know,” Corvo said. “But I _can’t-“_

“You don’t _have_ to do anything,” Emily said. “But you need to remember that this isn’t just your fight. It was Daud’s. And now it’s Garrett’s. Your best chance in fighting Delilah is by getting help from those who did it before.”

Garrett couldn’t keep still any longer – the position he was currently in was putting his shoulder in an awkward position. He kept his eyes closed, shifted his position, making it look as though he were simply turning in his sleep. Even so, he could tell he drew Corvo and Emily’s attention.

“The decision will likely not be made by me, anyway,” Corvo said, softly. “We should go,” he added. “Before we wake Garrett.”

They left the room, quietly, and Garrett waited a full minute before moving again and drawing out the whalebone charm again, to twist it in his fingers.

He knew having Thomas around was going to be somewhat of a problem for Corvo – how could it not be? Every time _Garrett_ looked at the Whalers, he recalled his sojourn in the Flooded District. For Corvo, it had to be a thousand times worse; a recollection of quite possibly the darkest day of Corvo’s life.

But Thomas wanted to _help._ Perhaps he wanted to atone for his former master’s sins, still. Daud had certainly fought Delilah as some form of penance for the murder of Jessamine Kaldwin.

Maybe finishing the fight with Delilah was Thomas’ opportunity to unburden _his_ soul for a part he undoubtedly played in the assassination of the former Empress.

Or maybe he simply wanted to help.

Either way, Garrett had no problem with him. But _Corvo-_

Corvo was right, too. The decision would not be taken by them.

And Garrett, who turned and shoved the charm back under the pillows, and forced his eyes closed in an attempt to sleep, knew what the Outsider would very likely decide.

One outcome was definitely more interesting than the other, after all.

* * *

 

He’d thought he’d forgotten what the Void had felt like. The endless cold, the endless dark, and the sound of nothing but his own breath.

It had been five years since Corvo had last been here, but it felt like no time had passed at all.

“It’s always so… _still,_ isn’t it?” Garrett, next to him, said. “But at the same time it feels like everything is moving too fast to even comprehend.”

“There’s a reason the natural philosophers write volumes about this place,” Corvo said, by way of agreement.

They were stood on a floating island made of some sort; dark slate fell into nothingness behind them and stretched out into a causeway in front. There was nothing to see except for the open, dark blue, expanse of Void.

“Well, come on then,” Garrett said, his silver-green and blue eye gleaming in the half-light. “Let’s go find a god.”

They walked in silence, up the slate path. Corvo could feel something watching them; the hairs on the back of his neck prickled with unease. But there was no sudden appearance of the Outsider, no sudden change in their surroundings.

The slate transitioned into cobbled stone at some indeterminate point, and Corvo and Garrett found themselves treading down what could be gauged as an approximation of a Dunwall street. Half-formed buildings grew around them, reminding Corvo of the crumbling ruins of the Flooded District. But there was no water here, and it was like the buildings were simply half-built instead of falling down.

Next to him, Garrett slowed, hand pressing into Corvo’s forearm. Looking up, the reason why was clear to see.

The ‘street’ was filled with a multitude of figures, all frozen within an instant of time. Corvo had lived on the edge of gang territory before; recognised the scene as one of the almost-constant meetings opposing factions had. They always ended the same: clashing words leading to clashing steel to dark red blood spilling onto stone. One of the factions looked to be Hatters, Corvo reckoned, but he wasn’t certain.

In any case, it wasn’t the façade of the gang war that drew his attention.

Near the centre of the fight, close to the eternally frozen-figures of the first to fall and the already-dead, was Thomas.

When he’d awoken in the Void, Corvo had wondered whether the Outsider had decided to honour Thomas’ request. In the end, he’d not been sure which outcome he would have preferred. But now he had his answer – and more questions.

Thomas had noticed their approach; he stood and left the frozen tumult, crossing the stone to stop next to them.

“So this is the Void,” he said, eventually.

_“Daud once told him the Void was cruel,”_ the Heart whispered. _“He never truly believed until now.”_

“Which side were you on?” Garrett asked, nodding to the scene before them. Corvo presumed, too, that one of the figures was Thomas, but the assassin was still masked and hooded.

Thomas didn’t reply.

“Let’s keep moving,” Corvo said, after a few moments.

They left the fight behind them, cobble turning to slate again, before it then turned to flagstones and carpet. A doorway loomed before them, slate and wood blended together in a construct that would only exist in the Void.

Passing through, Corvo felt the Void _shift_ around them. The room they were now in was large, expansive, but _familiar._

A glass dome loomed above them; frozen at the moment of shattering, glass glimmering above them. A stone sat on a pedestal in the centre of the room, streams of light and smoke washing out from it. Around the stone was arrayed a ring of people; cloaked, hooded, and bathed in the blue glow.

And hanging above it all, amidst the shattered glass, were two small, dark figures, falling into the blue light.

Corvo had seen the Ceremony Room of Northcrest Manor before, by virtue of a previous visit to the Void. He’d heard descriptions of what had occurred there, from Garrett.

But to _see_ it, frozen in a single moment-

“I’d forgotten,” Garrett said, softly, “how far the fall was.”

“Is that you?” Thomas asked, pointing to the highest figure. Corvo could make out Garrett’s cloak, and an arm reaching up, throwing what was presumably the Claw, but not much else.

Garrett nodded.

“This is the night everything changed,” he said. “The ritual that started it all. Everyone in this circle is dead, now.”

Garrett recalled Garrett recounting a list of names and the fate of each person.

“Which one is Orion?” he asked.

“That one,” Garrett pointed. “Brother _Aldous.”_

Orion was hooded like the others, but Corvo caught a glimpse of a bearded face, and a cunning gleam in the man’s eye.

“What happened to the other person?” Thomas asked, pointing to the other, falling figure.

“She still lives,” Garrett said, quieter, somewhat sadder. “But we don’t talk much anymore. Didn’t talk much before, honestly.”

They continued one, through a hole in the stone wall, and the Void moved with them.

Upon viewing the next scene that lay before them, Corvo stopped, heart clenching in his chest.

A stone gazebo occupied a slate plinth; the path before them led up to it.

And as they moved closer towards it, Corvo was sure he felt his heart stop.

He would never forget Jessamine’s death. The scene was imprinted into the very fabric of his being. And while he tried to cover it with newer, fresher, better memories – or even think about everything _but_ that one moment, it was always there underneath, tarnishing his soul.

He could remember practically everything about that day. How travel-worn and relieved to be home he’d been. Emily’s grin as she’d raced to meet him the bridgeway. Jessamine’s own smile upon seeing him approach.

Daud’s blade, as it pierced Jessamine’s skin.

Two figures were before them. Corvo recognised it as himself holding onto the dying figure of Jessamine. His own back was turned – the only face Corvo could see was Jessamine’s. Her eyes were closed, and the white marble of the gazebo was already stained red with blood.

The blood formed a scrawl, words that Corvo didn’t have to read because they, too, were imprinted in his mind.

_YOU CANNOT SAVE HER._

“Everything always comes back to this moment, doesn’t it?” a voice asked, from nearby.

The Void shifted again; the scene disappeared and they were left with black slate and the Outsider stood on a nearby outcrop, watching them.

He hadn’t changed at all in the past five years. Corvo wondered if he’d ever changed in the millennia he’d existed in this place.

Next to him, Thomas shifted-

“Do not bow, Thomas,” the Outsider turned his black-eyed gaze onto the masked figure. “I am not a god who requires supplication or the fawning of sycophants. And as for your _request,_ I am aware of what you desire. I will not give you an answer now.”

Thomas stopped, before straightening and folding his hands behind his back. Corvo glanced at him, confused for a moment, but he didn’t ask.

“Jessamine Kaldwin’s death was a catalyst for many,” the Outsider said, as if nothing had happened. “For Corvo, it was the end of an innocence he didn’t know he had. For Daud, it was the end of the only life he’d ever known. And for _Delilah – “_

He paused, stepping down from his platform to stand before them.

“It was an opportunity to regain what had been previously denied her.”

He turned, gazing out across the vast expanse of Void, before turning back to look at the three.

“Five years ago, the assassin Daud could have warned you about her,” he said to Corvo, “if you’d cared to ask. But you were too _busy_ for questions.”

Corvo’s fist clenched by his side. Daud had said nothing – made no attempt to warn Corvo nor use the knowledge of Delilah’s plan as a bargaining chip for his life. Maybe, in the end, he’d thought he hadn’t atoned enough for Jessamine’s death.

“There’s no-one quite like Delilah,” the Outsider continued, starting to pace back and forth before them. “Finding herself cut off from the only world she knew, she plotted and planned, and figured out almost every secret in your City, Garrett. And now she has your eye, and the Primal stone. And that’s only the start.”

“This is your fault,” Garrett said, suddenly, accusingly, drawing the Outsider’s gaze. “ _You_ were the one who marked her – who marked Daud and Corvo and _made_ the Primal-“

“Was it I who decided Jessamine Kaldwin needed to die, too?” the Outsider cut him off, drawing to a halt in his pacing. “Was it I who decided to accept the contract to kill her? Was it I who decided to harness Primal energy and damn the consequences?”

Garrett was silent, glaring at the Outsider, who returned his gaze with ease.

“It was not my choice that Delilah come to your world, Garrett,” the Outsider said, as if he were attempting to placate the thief. “Her will and desire to dominate is formidable. She should have remained here, drifting, where Daud left her. But she _chose_ not to, and fell through a crack in the Void, created by the choices made by the men of _your_ world.”

“But _you_ could choose to help,” Thomas said, stiffening when the Outsider’s gaze fell upon him.

“I could,” he conceded. “But I will not. I once told Daud that I do not play favourites with those I mark. _This-“_ he gestured to the gathered three before him “-is merely to make things more _interesting_ for all of those involved.”

“Not because you’re worried, then,” Corvo said.

“ _Corvo,”_ the Outsider grinned, teeth impossibly sharp and bright in the darkness. “Worry is an emotion I have not felt in a long time. And while Delilah’s plan may have the effect she desires, it does not concern me as of yet.”

He looked away, something unrecognisable passing across his face. Corvo saw Garrett frown next to him, registering the change.

“After all,” the deity said eventually, “everything has its beginning and its end. And I can see _all_ of the endings. My part here does not affect as many of them as you would think.”

“So you’re giving us- nothing?” Garrett asked. “You’re simply the boatman in this scenario?”

“I will give you,” the Outsider said, something akin to a smile on his face, “the same thing I gave Daud five years ago. A mystery that starts with a name. It will be up to you to find your way from there.”

“What’s the name?” Corvo asked.

The Outsider looked between them all, obsidian-black eyes gleaming with an indescribable emotion. He grinned, again, sharp and mean and practically _relishing_ the name he uttered:

“ _Viktoria.”_

* * *

 

_“Yet by the eyes, those phosphorescent eyes, you know him in all his shapes; the eyes alone unchanged by metamorphosis.”_

_Angela Carter; **The Company of Wolves**_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the reviewer who thought I was going to include Daud in this fic: I'm so sorry. I hope you like Thomas, though.  
> Some of you guessed that I would make Garrett grab the mechanical eye. It was a rather foregone conclusion, I suppose.
> 
> Avery Pradclif is the same Overseer Pradclif that Daud finds in the Brigmore Witches DLC. I just wanted to give him a happy ending. Leandra was made for this fic alone. Rowan the Whaler is an OC of Lark's - cometoruin - and used with their permission.  
> Whaler Geoff made a return because "Whaler Geoff strikes again" is honestly the funniest thing to me.
> 
> Emily kicking Corvo in the balls might be the best thing I've ever written and I don't think i'm ever going to surpass it. We've peaked right here guys.  
> Jindosh is here because he IS a clockwork expert, after all, and while I didn't originally intend to include him the opportunity was too good to pass up. 
> 
> The Void I tried to make somewhere between the styles of Dishonored 1 and 2. I hope I did it justice, as well as everyone's favourite whale god.
> 
> Okay so it's literally 1am here - I didn't want to wait to upload the chapter so I'm going to bed now.   
> And I probably won't have another chapter out before Christmas, so I'll wish everyone happy holidays here - hope you all have great time ahead!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is Corvo,” Garrett said, gesturing to the stranger, who inclined his head in greeting. “He’s- not from around here."  
> “We’ve been introduced,” Corvo said, leaning back against his own plinth.  
> “You mean, you nearly shivved us to death for walking in here,” Basso snapped.  
> Corvo offered him something along the lines of an apologetic smile. Basso didn’t trust it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOPS so I didn't mean to leave everyone hanging for six months again. My bad, guys.  
> In my defence, I was taking part in carvedwhalebones Dishonored Big Bang event - expect that story to come out some time in the near future!
> 
> As ever, thanks for this chapter go to Lark and Taffer! Please go send them love!!

_“And why get angry at Helen?_  
_As if she singlehandedly destroyed those multitudes of men._  
_As if she all alone made this wound in us.”_

_Aeschylus; **Agamemnon** (trans. Anne Carson)_

* * *

 

“Let’s go over it again. Maybe we missed something.”

“Basso,” Erin said, something between anger and pity in her tone, “what else is there to go over? It’s been a week. He’s d-“

“ _Don’t_ say it,” Basso snapped, fingers curling around the crumpled newspaper he held in his hands. “You don’t know that he’s gone. He’s- he’s been gone longer before. _You’ve_ been gone longer before.”

In his periphery, he saw Erin sigh, but she didn’t reply.

The cellar under the Crippled Burrick was dark and cold, illuminated by a single candle. A draught whistled in through the open window, but Basso didn’t close it. The door was open, too, as it always was, but no thieves had come to visit recently. They’d gone to ground, and would likely start to trickle out again soon, but for now the city was as dark and quiet as the cellar. Even the nobility was taking notice of the silence from the thieves.

“All right,” Erin said, patiently, “let’s go over it again.”

Basso looked up, caught her gaze, some small shred of _relief_ curling in his chest as he did so.

He hadn’t expected her to come. She and Garrett hadn’t talked in years, he knew that. But the day after Garrett had apparently escaped the Cradle, she’d shown up. She’d been there ever since; hadn’t provided a reason for why she’d stayed or why she’d even come in the first place.

Whatever it was, he was glad.

“All right,” he said, recounting words he’d said several times before already. “We know he got out of the Cradle. That kid of Reefer’s picked him up and brought him as far as Stonemarket. If only the idiot had brought him _here-“_

“You know Garrett,” Erin said. “Stubborn bastard won’t let anybody tell him what to do.”

“I know, but-“ Basso began, breaking off.

“S’my fault, you know?” he said quietly, looking down at the table. “I sent him to the Bafford place – it _had_ to be a setup. If only I’d- I’d checked _more_ or I’d-“

“Garrett knew the risks. We _all_ know the risks,” Erin said quietly, crossing the room and gently resting a hand on his shoulder. “What’s done is done. We need to focus on what to do _now.”_

Basso nodded, swallowing hard, crushing down the torrent of emotion and guilt roiling inside his stomach.

“Sutter said Garrett was- _bad_ ,” Erin recounted, when Basso didn’t speak. “Blackhanded, missing an eye, and barely able to stand. And talking about something or someone. But he was _adamant_ that Sutter change the codes.”

“Go to ground, be on the lookout, witchcraft, death,” Basso recalled. “And then he disappeared.”

A go to ground symbol was uncommon – Basso could only recall it being used once before in his memory. Thieves knew to use it sparingly, only when times were at their worst. Combined with the other three – it didn’t spell well at all.

“Something happened at the Clock Tower,” Erin said. “That storm was- _unnatural._ And what happened after-“

Basso nodded in agreement.

“He made it to the Tower – somehow,” he said. “Whatever happened up there, he was in the middle of it. Are you sure he’s not-“

He couldn’t bring himself to say the next few words.

“I searched the place myself,” Erin said. “He’s not there. He hasn’t been seen _anywhere_ since that night _._ ”

“So where did he go?” Basso asked. “Why hasn’t he come back? What- where-“

“I don’t know, Basso,” Erin said.

They fell silent, Basso staring at the table in front of him, Erin on the other side of it. In the pub above them, he could hear the sound of laughter and glass hitting woodwork. On her perch behind them, Jenivere the magpie cawed into the still night air, ruffling her feathers and starting to preen.

The sound of footsteps cutting the quiet outside drew both their attention; Erin reached for a dagger strapped to her hip, but they both relaxed when an urchin stumbled into the cellar.

“Mister Basso,” he said, nodding. “Miss, uh-“ he floundered for Erin’s name for a moment, before deciding to press on anyway. “The Queen of Beggars asked me to send for you. She says that you should come to the chapel. Both of you.”

“Now?” Basso asked, unwilling to leave the cellar- _just in case._

“Aye, sir,” the urchin nodded furiously. “Said it had to do wit’ your friend.”

Basso froze, turning to slowly look at Erin.

“Sutter said Garrett had wanted to contact the Queen,” she said slowly. “Gave him a message to give her.”

“It’s better than any lead we’ve got so far,” Basso turned to give Jenivere a swift pat (to which she ducked her head and steadfastly ignored him), and tossed a coin to the messenger.

“Let’s go,” he said to Erin.

The air was still and cold, suffused with a fog that permeated the early morning sky. Everything was muffled, close, a by-product of the snow that had fallen several days previous. Basso and Erin walked quickly, as fast as the somewhat-slippery terrain allowed, wary of anyone watching them as they trekked to the chapel on Mourningside. There was nobody around, especially not with the weather as it was, but Basso couldn’t help but feel unsettled by it all.

As they walked, he glanced up at the Clock Tower, looming high above them, something cold settling in his gut as he did so.

The Queen was not there to meet them above ground; another beggar pointed them in the direction of the crypt. In the winter months, she generally didn’t hold court among the gravestones – the beggars were dressed poorly enough as it was, let alone faced with snow and the bracing chill of the wind.

Inside was warmer, torches adorned the walls, but Basso couldn’t see the Queen anywhere.

“What in the-“ Basso breathed, taking in the scene before him.

The crypt was made of several stone sarcophagi – old families laid to rest long ago, but long forgotten now. The only people who ever paid any attention to them now were those who knew nothing about them – beggars who didn’t care for who lay within, but were happy for a flat surface to rest their tired bodies upon.

On one of the stone tombs lay a figure; small, eyes closed.

_Garrett._

Suddenly, a shadow on the far side of the room moved, right hand twisting a sword that _unfolded_ somehow, left crossing in front. Basso flinched, gripping Erin’s arm, as she drew her own dagger-

Stood between them and Garrett was a man; tall, wearing a short dark coat that had some sort of gold edging. Fine boots that looked both well-made and well-used, cut in a military style. His left hand bore both a ring and some kind of _tattoo,_ but it wasn’t a design Basso was familiar with.

Most prominent of all, however, was the mask the man wore.

It was like staring into the face of death itself; a steel-and-dark skull threaded together with _gold._ It was simultaneously the most intriguing and the most terrifying thing Basso had ever seen.

He realised he was still holding onto the newspaper from before, and brandished it in what he hoped was a threatening manner.

“You- you get back!” he yelled, as Erin readied her dagger.

“Peace, Basso,” said a voice from behind the shadow; the Queen chose to make her entrance, then, pressing her hand onto the stranger’s sword-arm.

“They are friends,” she told him. “I sent for them when you woke.”

The man lowered the sword, slowly, folding it away. The mask turned towards them again.

“Basso?” a voice emanated from behind the skull; an accent Basso didn’t recognise. “The fence?”

“Who’s askin’?” Basso retorted.

The man reached up and pulled off his mask, revealing a tanned face and a sharp gaze. He removed his hood, too, dark brown hair falling into his eyes. Definitely not a local.

Despite the lack of mask, the man still exuded an air of _danger;_ if Basso were to get in a fight he would most definitely lose within a half-minute. Probably less.

“Garrett spoke of you,” the man said. “I apologise for acting so- abruptly. It is difficult to know who to trust.”

“Who are you? What’s wrong with Garrett?” Erin asked, stepping forward. She was still holding on to her dagger, Basso noticed.

Always a brave girl. Foolish, maybe, but brave.

“He’s still injured,” the man said, face steadfastly neutral. “I thought it best not to wake him. Are you Erin?” he asked suddenly.

Erin’s hand flexed around her dagger, but she nodded in response.

The man nodded, apparently to himself. He looked down at his mask, turning it over in his hands for a moment, before turning to the Queen again.

“How long have we been here?” he asked her.

“Less than an hour,” the Queen replied. “Your other companion woke first.”

“So, pardon the interruption,” Basso said, fear and relief fading to _anger_ at being left out in the cold with no explanation, “but what the _fuck_ is goin’ on here?”

“Who are you?” Erin repeated. “What happened to Garrett?”

This man knew far more about them than Basso did of him _._ The mask had made him antsy (and this week had been a pretty _antsy_ week if he said so himself), and the man’s words had made no sense so far. To be left outside of what seemed like yet _another_ important conversation was one-too-many, in Basso’s opinion.

The man’s gaze returned to them both, still stood near the steps that lead down into the crypt. Cold air from outside washed in behind them, but neither paid it any attention.

“Dark times are upon the City, Basso,” the Queen said, breaking the silence and moving to sit on a wooden chair situated next to one of the plinths. “What occurred a week ago at the Clock Tower is only the start of it.”

“Garrett tried to get a message to you,” Basso said, choosing to ignore the stranger now for the sake of a less confusing conversation. Said stranger took up position on one of the empty plinths next to the Queen, leaning against it in a manner that appear casual but to a well-trained eye spelled readiness.

“His messenger delivered it,” the Queen inclined her head. “I took the necessary precautions. Do not worry,” she said to the unnamed man. “The witch cannot penetrate this crypt. There are some here who know how to protect against the great leviathan’s magic.”

Her hand snapped out, unnervingly quickly for a blind woman, grasping at the man’s tattooed left hand. In response, the man flinched, but held still as she traced a finger over the marking.

“I must admit,” the Queen said softly, “I never expected to meet one of his chosen.”

“You’ll wish you hadn’t, later.”

They turned to see that Garrett had awoken, and was slowly pulling himself into a seated position.

“Brings me nothing but trouble-,” Garrett said, hand rising to the right side of his face, as he searched around his plinth for something. “Won’t let you have _any_ fun, likes to stick on the _good_ side of the law-“

“Garrett?” Basso called; the thief paused in his movements for a moment, turning to look at Basso and Erin.

His face was half-shadowed, but Basso could see evidence of bruises and cuts. His right hand was wrapped in a bandage. His right eye was _gone-_ the gaping dark hole left there turned Basso’s stomach.

Garrett must have noticed his reaction, for he quickly turned away, leaving the rest of his face in shadow.

“Here,” the stranger said, pressing a small wooden box into Garrett’s left hand. “It was next to you when I woke.”

Garrett took the box without comment, turned his back and started to fiddle with it.

“Where’s Thomas?” he asked the other man.

Basso noticed the other man’s jaw tightened, slightly.

“Your other friend said he was going to scout the nearby area,” the Queen said. “He said he would not be long.”

“So-“ Basso began, his voice somewhat high-pitched, “is anyone gonna tell us what the _fuck_ is goin’ on?”

“We thought you were dead, Garrett,” Erin said. “You _disappeared-“_

“Not my intention,” Garrett replied, turning back around.

The hole in the right side of his face was gone, replaced with an _eye_ that glowed blue and green. Basso recalled when Garrett had first disappeared and returned a year later with his right eye different. He’d not commented on it, but he’d certainly _wondered_ what had happened.

He’d wondered the same with Erin, when she’d eventually returned to the City, after Garrett had helped rescue her from- from whatever it had been.

Garrett had said she was alive, but he’d not known anything else about her fate.

Erin had only returned to the City two years ago, had tentatively got in contact with Basso for thieving work, and when he’d met her he’d noticed several things had changed.

Her hair had grown out, but she still wore a scarf and hood to cover her face. She now carried a dagger at all times, and her outfit was newer and made of leathers that were certainly not made in the City. She still wore the same bead necklace, and her fingers now had several rings on them.

But the biggest change was to her eyes. Before she’d disappeared, they were brown. But _now_ they were blue. The same blue as the weird glow that had come from Garrett’s eye after his year away.

This _new_ eye of Garrett’s was a fake one; Basso could tell that easily enough. Could see a faint silver gleam in the torchlight. Where Garrett had gotten it, and how he’d gotten it fitted was another question entirely, one he suspected he would never get an answer to.

_Cagey bastard,_ he thought irritably, _never tells me anything._

“This is Corvo,” Garrett said, gesturing to the stranger, who inclined his head in greeting. “He’s- not from around here. Corvo, this is Basso, Erin, and the Queen of Beggars,” he indicated each person in turn.

“We’ve been introduced,” Corvo said, leaning back against his own plinth.

“You mean, you nearly shivved us to death for walking in here,” Basso snapped.

Corvo offered him something along the lines of an apologetic smile. Basso didn’t trust it.

And then another man appeared.

He arrived with a sound that sounded like the air was splitting in two; he and Erin flinched as the man flickered into existence, bringing the taste of ozone and burning air with him. He was wearing a heavy, dark coat and a mask that looked almost as horrific as Corvo’s.

The almost- _shriek_ that emanated from Basso was embarrassing, probably, but he found himself moving backward, behind Erin, away from- from _whatever_ that was supposed to be.

“That’s Thomas,” Garrett said, as Basso tried to calm his rising fear and clutched at Erin’s arm.

The new arrival didn’t say anything, clearly aware he’d interrupted some sort of conversation, but for some reason that just unsettled Basso _more._

Corvo and Thomas were clearly dangerous men. So how did Garrett know them? He generally didn’t tolerate killers – he’d never kept his opinion secret regarding _Erin’s_ choices, after all. His apparent _friendship_ with the pair was a mystery that Basso was sure he would probably never get an answer to.

“Garrett,” Erin said, slowly, in a tone that Basso knew meant she was reaching the end of her patience. “What’s going on?”

Garrett looked up to his two companions, some hard-to-discern expression on his face. A silent conversation apparently passed between him and Corvo, because Garrett sighed, and nodded.

“Basso,” he said, slowly pushing himself to a standing position, gingerly holding onto his ribcage. “Do you remember the time you sent me to that artist’s in Dayport – Ivanoff – and I- disappeared? It was five years ago.”

“You mean the time you _didn’t_ come back with the Ivanoff and you never said where you’d been?” Basso replied, impatient, wondering how in the world _that_ was relevant. “Like now,” he added, pointedly.

Garrett smirked, seeing through his annoyance.

“I didn’t tell you because it wasn’t necessary to, then,” he said. “But it had to do with- with the Primal.”

He said the last part quieter, acutely aware of Erin and the way she tensed at his mentioning of the word.

Basso was, again, lost. Because, honestly, he knew very little about the Primal, other than that it was _bad._ He’d sent Erin and Garrett after some stone once, and they’d both been irrevocably changed by it. Then there had been the whole mess involving Orion and his Graven Dawn, something Basso had thought was good but apparently was not. But _neither_ Garrett nor Erin talked about it, or gave Basso any hint as to what it _truly_ was.

He suspected the Queen of Beggars knew, but she kept more secrets than the House of Blossoms.

“Well that’s _great,”_ Basso said, angrily. “Another thing for you to brush off and _not_ tell me about. We’ve been in the dark for a week, Garrett – even _longer_ if you think about it – and you come back and tell me it’s to do with some- some _thing_ you never told me about? Am I just supposed to guess?”

“You never told him?” Corvo asked Garrett. “Either of them?”

Garrett’s jaw twitched uncomfortably.

“Never saw the need to,” he said eventually.

“What does it have to do with the Primal?” Erin cut in, tone neutral but hard, something _dangerous_ underneath it all. Basso couldn’t see her face, but he could see the whites of her knuckles as she gripped the hilt of her dagger as hard as she could.

Garrett didn’t reply; he looked from Erin, to the floor, and to Corvo, as if he were struggling to find the words. Perhaps he was realising just how much he needed to explain for the whole mess to actually make _sense_ to Basso.

“During the ritual at Northcrest Manor,” Corvo broke in, “the stone shattered – as I’m sure you’re aware.”

Erin nodded. Basso knew that, too – Garrett had had to chase down all the pieces.

“When it did,” Corvo continued, as Garrett shifted uncomfortably on his feet, “a piece of it was cast into the Void. It fell into another world.”

“The _what?”_ Basso asked, disbelieving. “Another- _what?_ Garrett, if you think _this_ is a good explanation for what’s been going on then-“

“It’s the truth,” Garrett said, looking up, and the finality of his tone made Basso pause, words failing him.

There was something in Garrett’s face – deadly serious and sad at the same time.

“What do you mean?” Erin asked. “How-“

“Imagine,” the Queen said, smoothly, “a series of paintings upon a wall. All made of the same basic things – canvas and wood and paint – but each one depicts a different subject. Contained within their frames, they are still _at heart_ the same thing, composed of different materials.”

“This world is one painting,” Corvo said, clearly understanding where the Queen was going with her analogy.

(Basso wasn’t).

“Thomas and I are from another world – another painting, if you will,” Corvo continued.

“And this Void place is another?” Erin asked.

“No,” Corvo shook his head. “It connects them.”

“Imagine it as the wall the paintings are hung upon,” the Queen said. “By virtue of the wall, all the paintings touch, but their frames keep them from all falling together.”

“I need a drink,” Basso said eventually. “Several drinks.”

“So how do you get from one place to another?” Erin asked.

“The Outsider. The Queen here calls him _the great leviathan,”_ Garrett said. “He’s a- deity of some kind. Not like any you’d know of here, though. Five years ago he pulled me through the Void to go and reclaim the fragment of stone. It’s how I met Corvo.”

“The message you gave to Sutter mentioned a leviathan,” Erin pressed. “You said one of the great leviathan’s children was here.”

Garrett nodded.

“Delilah,” he said, darkly.

“You mean the Lady Kaldwin?” Basso asked, finally glad to be back onto a subject he knew something about.

“The Lady _what?”_ Corvo snapped, tone suddenly dark and cold. His left hand clenched, and Basso saw the tattoo there flicker a bright-white for a brief second.

_What the-_

“How do you know that name?” Garrett asked, slowly.

Basso looked down, uncurling the newspaper he still held. Unfurled it, tossed it across the crypt, where it was caught by Corvo. He, Garrett and Thomas peered at the headline.

_THIEF-TAKER GENERAL ANNOUNCES NEW ‘WITCH-GUARD’ TO BE HEADED BY DELILAH KALDWIN._

The three didn’t speak for a moment, but Basso saw an expression cross Corvo’s face – something like _fury,_ but he hid it well.

“Delilah- _Kaldwin,”_ he said, quietly, eventually, his tone one of carefully-composed neutrality.

“You have to admit,” Thomas put in, speaking for the first time, “it does sound better than _Copperspoon.”_

Corvo’s gaze turned to the masked man, a withering glare that Basso would not have wanted to be on the receiving end of.

Corvo and Thomas didn’t appear to be friends. How Garrett knew them was still a mystery – how he’d managed to recruit them together was probably an even greater one that Basso could see himself never getting an answer to. No change there, then.

“The ‘witch-guard’?” Garrett asked, scanning the article. “What’s that, exactly?”

“Well, the official word is along the lines of needing a different type of guard to fight a different type of enemy. Y’see, after the shit that went down at the Clock Tower last week,” Basso began, “people got worried about us less-than-legal types having access to means that were more…supernatural.”

“So they created the witch-guard,” Erin broke in. “Witches to fight witchcraft.”

“Delilah’s building a coven,” Thomas said. “She needs one to draw her power.”

“And this is- allowed?” Corvo asked.

“If she’s in league with the Thief-Taker General, anything’s allowed,” Garrett told him, flipping through the newspaper.

“Have you seen the coven?” Thomas asked, sightless eyes of his mask turning to face Basso and Erin.

“I did,” Erin said. “They’re all women. Someone told me they were widows of guards who’d died in the line of duty, or relatives, that sort of thing-“

“All wanting some sort of revenge against people like you,” Corvo said quietly. Basso wasn’t sure if he liked the way the man said it; _people like you._

“They’re powerful,” Erin cut over him. “And they don’t answer to the General. The- the _magic_ they can apparently do is like-“

“Vines. Beasts. The dead and decaying,” Thomas said. Erin nodded.

“So how do _you_ know the Lady Kaldwin?” Basso asked.

“That’s not her name,” Corvo said, lowly, viciously.

“She’s from the same world as Corvo and Thomas,” Garrett interrupted, before Basso could respond. “A witch – marked by the Outsider. Given powers beyond the world.”

Because – _of course –_ it was never going to be simple. Basso was already longing for the days when Garrett was _missing;_ at least they were less confusing.

“What sort of _powers?”_ he asked.

Garrett’s gaze turned to Corvo, and he inclined his head a fraction.

Corvo pushed himself off his plinth, bringing his left hand in front of his body. The tattooed hand, Basso noticed- right before the man _flickered._

And suddenly he was wearing Basso’s hat, turning Basso’s pocket watch over in his hands, and leaning against the plinth again as if nothing had happened.

“What the-“ Basso sputtered, hands reaching up to his now-bare head, before searching his pockets. “How did-“

“The Outsider’s Mark,” Corvo said, indicating the tattoo. “He gifted me, once, too.”

He tossed the hat back across the room, the watch following it. Basso pocketed the item, pulled the hat back on, distinctly more discomfited than he had been before.

“The leviathan,” Erin said, drawing their attention. “So you-“ she said to Corvo “-are one of his- _children._ The message Garrett gave to the Queen of Beggars was to warn her about the Lady Delilah. Another of these- _chosen._ ”

Garrett nodded. “ _She_ was Basso’s client who created the setup at the Bafford Manor. She tore out my eye.”

He said it distantly, as if it had happened a long time ago, or to someone else, but Basso noted the way his hand clenched into a fist when he did so. That was probably only the surface of what had happened inside the Cradle, too. There were stories that came out of that place – about _things_ that weren’t quite human, prowling the darkened corridors of the sealed sections.

“Why?” Basso asked, instead of pressing Garrett for more details like he wanted to. “If she just wanted an eye she could have just as easily got one from the resurrection men – they do it practically nightly.”

“ _Resurrection men_?” Corvo queried, quietly.

“Grave robbers who steal the corpse instead of the riches,” Garrett told him. Corvo managed to keep a straight face, but Basso saw a flicker of _something_ pass across it.

“She didn’t go to the resurrection men because _they_ can’t get an eye with a piece of the Primal in it,” Erin said. Garrett nodded.

“She put it into some kind of device. A- sphere, with claws, about this big-“ he demonstrated with his hands. “I don’t know what it is. She was using it to find the rest of the Primal, I think.”

“And did she find it?” Erin asked.

Garrett nodded. “ _I_ was keeping the stone at the top of the Clock Tower,” he said, quietly. Basso saw Erin’s knuckles go white again – Garrett had never said what had become of the stone after he’d put it together. Basso had assumed it destroyed, or lost. “But Delilah followed me up there. I threw it as far as I could, but- but the _power_ she has? She probably found it. I was a distraction, at best.”

“Did the device speak?” the Queen of Beggars asked, suddenly.

Garrett stilled, slowly turning to face her. Basso had never seen Garrett afraid before – nervous, yes; jittery, yes. But right now he looked as though he’d seen a _ghost._

“Not with words, of course,” the Queen continued, “but inside the mind.”

“You know what it is,” Garrett said.

“If I am right – then it is a relic from an age past,” she replied. “Its true purpose is lost to time, I am afraid. I only know a little of it – and that it was last heard of during the time of the Sneak Thief.”

“Everything comes back to that thief,” Corvo said, quietly. “He lost his eye, too, didn’t he?”

“Removed on the orders of the Trickster himself, so the stories say,” Garrett said.

Even Basso knew that one. The story went that in return, the Sneak Thief stole away the Trickster’s consort and condemned the god himself to the maelstrom.

“Why?” Thomas asked. “Who is the Trickster?”

“A god,” Garrett said. “One of the Old Gods.”

“This still doesn’t explain what Delilah wants,” Erin said. “Or how _you_ intend to stop her.”

_“You_ said she wanted the Outsider,” Corvo said to Garrett.

“She definitely wants revenge,” Garrett said. “Daud sealed her inside the Void – the Outsider’s _domain –_ and the Outsider left her there. She _has_ to blame him for some of it.”

“Wait- _what?”_ Basso floundered. “Who’s this _Daud?”_

“Nobody important,” Corvo said, in a tone that suggested to Basso the opposite was true.

“If Delilah uses the device to find the rest of the Primal- which she most likely has, by now,” Garrett began. “Could she use the Primal to reach the Outsider?”

“He did say it was a part of him,” Corvo speculated. “But you know as well as I do – he doesn’t like to elaborate.”

“You’re saying that the Lady Delilah _might_ be after this Outsider god of yours and he _didn’t_ tell you why? He’s a _god!”_ Basso practically exploded. “He should know – shouldn’t he?”

“He gave us a name,” Thomas broke in. “Viktoria.”

He said it with some sort of reverence, as if expecting a reaction. Basso hadn’t heard the singular name before – and while he knew a couple of Viktorias he doubted _they_ were who this leviathan-god-person meant.

(He certainly hoped they weren’t. He didn’t want to have to endure what would likely be an awkward conversation with them.)

“Say that again,” the Queen said, suddenly.

“Viktoria,” Garrett repeated. “It was all he gave us. A mystery that starts with the name.”

“You know it,” Corvo said – not a question.

“The leviathan has certainly given you a _good_ mystery,” the Queen said slowly. “Viktoria was the name of the Trickster’s consort.”

“Where do we find her?” Thomas asked.

“You don’t,” Erin said. “She would have been dead for hundreds of years by now. Your _Outsider_ gave you a dead end. Literally.”

“She’s right,” Basso said. “Nobody knows what happened to the Woodsie Lady after the Trickster fell.”

“Surely there would be records – or stories,” Corvo said. “People don’t just- _disappear.”_

“I just told you,” Basso said, irritably, “ _nobody_ knows what happened to her. I didn’t even know her name was Viktoria.”

“How did _you_ know that?” Erin asked the Queen, as Basso found himself on the receiving end of a piercing gaze from Corvo. He held it, attempting to be defiant, but found he had to look away.

There was something definitely unsettling about Corvo.

“There _are_ records,” the Queen said. “There once existed a group of people whose job it was to maintain these records. People say I know everything in the City; but truly, _this_ group knew all. They kept vast libraries – thousands of books chronicling past, present, future. If you’re looking for Viktoria, then I suggest you start with them.”

“A library isn’t much to go on,” Thomas said to her.

“Then perhaps their symbol will,” the Queen said. “Do you know why I choose to hold my court here?”

“For the charming atmosphere?” Garrett asked. Basso snorted.

“This place once belonged to the record keepers,” the Queen said. “Their statues still adorn the walls.”

Basso had seen the statues before – robed figures holding keys – but he’d never really paid attention to them. He assumed they were to do with the Old Gods – watching over the long-dead or some shit like that.

“This is a crypt, not a library,” Corvo said.

“No-“ Garrett said slowly, “but I _have_ seen a library that has these statues.”

“Well, don’t leave the rest of us in suspense,” Basso said. “Where is it?”

* * *

 

“Absolutely not.”

“Erin-“

“I said _no,_ Garrett – what is there to argue?”

The City was cold.

Corvo remembered, long ago, when he’d first arrived in Dunwall. Karnaca, in the south, was warm, sunny, and barely even saw _rain,_ let alone snow. Dunwall had been a cold, hard shock to the system – he remembered how he’d shivered his way through his first winter, and how the summer had felt like a Serkonan winter in comparison.

The City was even _worse –_ reminiscent of Corvo’s fleeting visit to Tyvia; show-cloaked and draped in freezing fog. How the thieves of this place endured it to ply their craft was a mystery.

Waking up in a crypt had been unnerving to say the least, but the blind woman who inhabited it had seemed genuine. The Queen of Beggars certainly knew a lot, if anything. And Corvo had to admit, her apparent subjects were probably the most useful way to gather and transport information across a city. Rats – human-sized or otherwise – had their way of getting everywhere, after all.

Garrett’s other friends had been- interesting. Corvo was certain Basso didn’t like or trust him.

(Considering he’d found no less than sixteen gold coins inside the lining of the man’s hat, and a secret compartment in the watch that contained a list of names, Corvo doubted Basso trusted anyone.)

Erin seemed wary of him, which was understandable. Corvo wasn’t quite sure what to make of _her,_ either. She was much like Emily in that once she’d made a decision, she wasn’t going to go back on it unless there was a _very_ good reason.

Such as now.

The argument had started as soon as they’d left the crypt. Garrett, Basso and Erin had led them down a winding backstreet, but whatever questions Corvo had wanted to ask about where they were going had been overshadowed by Erin and Garrett’s bickering.

No wonder their partnership had fallen apart.

Through the fog, Corvo had spotted a tall, looming structure that he’d presumed was the Clock Tower – Garrett’s hideout. Their path hadn’t taken a straight route, however – the street lead to what appeared to be the back lot of a _pub_ of all places.

“I’m gonna stretch out some feelers,” Basso had announced, breaking away, “see if we can find out what this Delilah’s up to.”

He’d paused by the steps that lead to a cellar of some sort.

_“After_ I’ve had some drinks to try and- make sense of all this shit. Try not to kill him, Erin,” he’d said, before turning and heading into the lit-up interior of the pub.

“It’s five in the morning,” Thomas had said – something akin to disbelief in his tone. “What kind of place serves drinks at _five in the morning?”_

Even Corvo had to admit, it was ludicrous.

“Last orders are at six,” Garrett had replied, apparently unconcerned. “But the barman knows better than to turn away Basso, considering the amount he pays to rent the cellar.”

They’d said nothing for a moment, before Garrett had glanced at a set of large, wooden gates that reminded Corvo of the quarantine gates.

“It’s this way,” he’d said, leading them out of the gate and into another side alley. From here, Corvo could see the name of the pub – _The Crippled Burrick._

Whatever that was.

There was a pile of crates at the side of the alley, and it was these Garrett and Erin climbed – Garrett moving with an ease that was surely feigned. Corvo followed, but Thomas simply transported himself to the roof above them. A small drift of snow fluttered down from his landing point.

“Show-off,” he heard Garrett mutter, as he and Erin lead them on a short, rooftop walk towards a door set into the side of the Clock Tower. It _towered_ over them – far taller than the Clock Tower of the Estate District – somewhat reminiscent of the Kingsparrow Lighthouse. In the muted light of dawn, its face gleamed, reflecting light that was yet to penetrate the fog surrounding the lower reaches of the city.

Garrett unlocked the door, also disabling several traps Corvo could see strung about the framework. Corvo was reminded of a visit to the Void several years ago, where Garrett had done the same thing.

Garrett gestured for them to enter, and he secured the door behind them. A winding staircase sat above them – Corvo could see that partway up it fell into nothingness, instead replaced by scaffolding and timberwork that looked almost as old as the stonework around it.

“The original tower that stood here was destroyed a few centuries back,” Garrett said, noticing Corvo’s gaze. “This one is the replacement.”

“Nobody’s worked on this for a long time,” Thomas said.

“No,” Garrett agreed. “They think it’s haunted.”

“Of course they do,” Corvo muttered, as they began their ascent.

The higher they climbed, the cooler the wind, but neither Garrett nor Erin seemed to notice it. Thomas was wearing a thick industrial jacket, and Corvo would endure far worse before he would utter a sound, but he couldn’t quite shake the chill that skimmed across the skin of his hands.

Up here, neither he nor Thomas used their powers – Corvo was unsure what beams would take his weight if he suddenly landed on them – so they both followed Garrett’s and Erin’s lead. Garrett moved quickly, but Corvo could detect a slight hesitation in the actions, but whether that was due to injury or the new eye of his, Corvo wasn’t sure. They took a winding route, both inside and outside of the tower, climbing higher and higher.

Eventually, they made it to the peak, a crow’s nest of sorts nestled among the gears and clockwork. The sunlight reached through an open window, up here, and Corvo took a moment to savour its bleak warmth.

“This is where you live?” Thomas asked Garrett, taking in the bed nestled under the staircase, and the bookshelves with numerous books stuffed into them. “Doesn’t the clock keep you awake?”

The clock was silent, Corvo noticed, glancing at the mechanism.

It wasn’t a simple fault. Intertwined in the gears and cogs were _vines,_ tangling the metal and woodwork, stopping the clock and making the whole thing look like an aged, gnarled construct from a time past.

Garrett was looking at the mess, some sort of calculating expression on his face, before he half-heartedly swiped at one of the vines with his dagger. It snapped, and the whole structure _groaned,_ but the gears didn’t move.

“We can’t stay here,” Erin said. “Delilah knows this place. The moment she knows you’re still alive she’ll come back here.”

“I know,” Garrett said, his tone not quite sad, but something similar that made Corvo’s heart twinge in sympathy, before he turned away from the entangled gears and moved towards a chest near to the bed.

He lifted the lid, began to rummage through it; Corvo took the opportunity to look at the interior of the tower better.

He recalled seeing it inside the Void, but to actually stand here was somewhat different. There was something _mesmerising_ about the giant mechanism of the clockwork looming above them, and the dull gleam of light that permeated through the face of the clock cast an orange-tinted glow over the woodwork. It was fine craftsmanship, too – Corvo had to wonder whether Garrett had come across this hideaway at the top, or whether he’d built it himself.

A series of display cases covered one side of the wall, arrayed in a corner. Corvo spotted a set of pins shaped like butterflies, rings with jewelled inlays, and a series of plaques with embossed letters he could barely make out.

“Interesting paintings,” Thomas commented; Corvo’s gaze was drawn to the wall above the cases – a series of matching, framed artworks adorned the wall. They appeared to picture humans with the heads of animals – like some weird taxidermy experiment gone wrong. Definitely not like the landscape that adorned the wall in his chambers; a view of Karnaca from the top of Shindaerey Peak.

“The Court of Montonessi,” Erin said. “He was a madman – ended up in Moira for the last part of his life. Each new painting sells for far more than the last one.”

“That one isn’t part of the set,” Thomas said, pointing to a large frame in the centre of the wall facing them.

“No,” Erin said. “I don’t know what that one is.”

The canvas was torn, a series of vicious slashes carved into the artwork, the flaps of material hanging loosely over the wooden back.

“It’s a Sokolov,” Corvo realised, stepping forward and lifting a piece of the torn canvas, revealing the image better. It was a rendering of the Outsider – he recalled seeing the painting _somewhere_ before, but he couldn’t recall.

“A who?” Erin asked.

“From our world,” Thomas said to her. “How did it end up here?”

“The Outsider decided that instead of giving me the Ivanoff I’d originally gone for, he was going to give me a portrait of himself, instead,” Garrett said, from the far side of the room. “Seems Delilah took offence to it.”

He’d unearthed a set of clothes from the inside of the chest – from what Corvo could tell they were a simpler version of the leathers he usually wore. Presumably _those_ had been confiscated when Garrett had been captured.

Garrett regarded his new clothes for a moment, before gathering them and stepping behind the staircase to change in some semblance of privacy. Corvo supposed his overlarge shirt wasn’t very practical – or warm.

“So this is the guy who’s caused all your problems, huh?” Erin asked, gazing up at the torn canvas.

Corvo nodded, as Thomas crossed the floor and mounted the staircase to the upper floor of the tower. At the top, he peered out of the open window.

“Where are we headed?” he asked.

“Raker’s Ditch. The South Quarter,” Garrett said, returning.

His new outfit wasn’t quite the seamless woven leather of his regular one, it was more disjointed parts that fit together in an approximate whole; a leather chestpiece, some padding on the shins, a shoulderpad on the right side. The cloak was the same one he’d worn upon his arrival to Dunwall – not Garrett’s regular, but still serviceable. Instead of the leather shoes he normally wore, he was in boots – well-made and light leather, but Corvo could tell they wouldn’t have the flexibility of his old shoes. There was a bracer on each wrist, and Corvo could see the slight gleam of a set of lockpicks concealed inside them. He didn’t wear gloves – his right hand still bore a bandage, but the left was wrapped in some dark cloth, presumably to give his palms protection from ledges and other climbing hazards.

His bow and quiver were also strapped to his back – presumably Garrett hadn’t taken the bow when he’d gone to the Bafford place. The Claw, however, was gone, as was the rope usually found on Garrett’s hip.

(He’d noticed Erin carried a similar gadget, but Corvo doubted she was going to give it up.)

“I used to wear this when I was younger,” Garrett said, noticing Corvo’s gaze. “It’ll do the job until I can replace my old one.”

He turned back to the chest, starting to rummage through it – presumably for equipment.

“What-“ Corvo heard Garrett mutter, before the man fully opened the lid of the chest, causing it to crash into the staircase.

Garrett frowned at the contents, before reaching in and pulling out a small bundled item and a sheet of parchment.

“This wasn’t here before,” he said slowly.

“Is that-“ Corvo began, frowning at the bundle, as Garrett unfolded it.

It was a scarf, navy blue threaded together with gold embroidery.

“Rather _fancy_ for your tastes, Garrett,” Erin commented from her perch near the clockwork.

“I made this,” Garrett said to her, “for someone else.”

He turned his gaze to the parchment, reading aloud:

“ _I don’t know if I’ll get the chance to give this to you before you leave, so I’m writing this note in case you decided to stop by and I wasn’t around. Maybe the Outsider will see this and pass it along. I don’t really know how he works._

_Years ago, you gave me this scarf – a first step, you called it._

_Consider this a first step in helping you regain everything you have lost._

_Emily.”_

Garrett glanced down at the scarf, twisting the material in his hands, before turning back to the letter.

“ _P.S,”_ he said, a smile on his face as he read the line, _“I’m only letting you borrow it. Which means you have to come back.”_

“Who’s _Emily_?” Erin asked. “Your sweetheart?”

“She’s the Empress,” Corvo said. “ _My_ charge.”

“She’s also fifteen,” Garrett added, winding the scarf around his neck, before peering back into the chest again.

In his periphery, Corvo saw Erin frown, but she didn’t say anything.

“Bastard couldn’t just give them to us earlier,” Garrett said, picking out another item and gesturing to Corvo with it – it was his crossbow, he noticed. He kept his sword nearby at all times, but his crossbow had been in the Imperial Safe Room, high up at the top of the tower, by his and Emily’s quarters. He took it, checked the mechanisms, somehow feeling more comforted by the fact he had it. Some ammunition followed it.

“Thomas, I think some of this is yours,” Garrett called; the Whaler turned away from the window, moving back down the stairs to stand by the chest. Erin also hopped down from her perch to join them.

“So, if _he’s_ some sort of guard for an Empress,” Erin said to Thomas, jerking her head to Corvo, “then what are you? The court jester?”

“No,” Thomas said, reaching into the chest and pulling out what looked as though to be a set of darts. Corvo recognised them as ones that fit onto the wristbows the Whalers wore, but they didn’t look to be regular bolts, or sleep darts.

“What are _these?”_ Erin asked, retrieving something that Corvo recognised as the whalebone item Thomas had given to him. She pulled out several more, similar-looking ones, all presumably with some occult purpose.

“There was one of these under my pillow, in the tower,” Garrett said.

“Bone charms,” Thomas said, plucking one from Erin’s grasp. “Do you not use them?” he asked Corvo.

Corvo shook his head.

“I suppose you don’t need them,” Thomas said, and while his tone was light there was _something_ in there that made Corvo frown.

“Well-“ Thomas continued, turning back to the chest, pulling out a larger object that Corvo immediately recognised as a rune “-those given gifts by the Outsider are provided with runes, like this. Objects that augment the gifts given to them – even unlock new abilities.”

He passed the rune across the Corvo; he grasped it, fingers skimming across the mark stamped upon it, before the symbol flared white – matching the same flare of the brand on his hand – and the whalebone crumbled to dust. A draught filtering through the window caught it, blew it towards the vines and clockwork; he watched it for a moment, before turning back.

“Those who are not – _gifted,_ shall we say – have to make do with the scraps of whalebone they can forge together to make a bone charm,” Thomas continued. “Each one you can find or make has different benefits or attributes. We made a habit of collecting them.”

“How do you tell what the effect is?” Garrett asked, holding up the charm he held to the light, squinting at the undecipherable lettering embossed upon it.

“Hold it. Concentrate. You’ll feel it work,” Thomas said.

There was scepticism written on Garrett’s face – Corvo could empathise – but he did as told, wrapping his hand around the charm and peering at it.

And then his figure _shivered._

It was a faint blurring at the edges, something that made Corvo’s eye want to stray _past_ Garrett and not focus on the man in front of him. It was something _unsettling,_ and it turned his stomach uncomfortably, making the whole effect even more pronounced. Clearly, the point of the charm was to ensure that whoever bore it was very difficult to concentrate on.

“We call that one _Shivering Shadow,”_ Thomas said. “It makes it hard to look at you in the dark.”

Garrett flexed his fingers around the charm; the effect faded.

“Useful,” he said. “What about the others?”

Thomas picked them up, peering at them in turn through the sockets of his mask.

_“Strong Lungs,”_ he began, listing off each charm and its effects. “You can swim underwater without needing to breathe. _Agile Acrobat;_ you can run, jump, and climb faster. Useful for moving through a city. _Tough Skin –_ this is the one I gave for you, Garrett; it helps with faster healing – and the last is _Void Surge.”_

Thomas paused, for a moment, gently placing the charm down on the edge of the chest.

“Daud used this one,” he said. “We could never make it work for us. The powers given by the Outsider – they take less- less _energy-_ to cast when you’re wearing this. Here.” He picked it up, tossed it to Corvo. “Seems the Outsider thought you would find it useful. Put it in your pocket, fix it to your belt – it doesn’t matter. As long as it’s on your person and you _wish_ it to work, it does.”

Corvo held the charm up to the light, peering at it. When he gripped it, he could almost _feel_ a lightness in his nerves, like some kind of extra energy or electricity running through his body.

“Wait,” Erin said, slowly, “are you not- _Marked,_ or whatever it’s called?” she asked Thomas. “How do you have- _abilities?_ Is it more charms?”

Thomas shook his head. “My gifts were given to me by someone else,” he said. “I draw from a similar _well_ of powers, but they’re not the same.”

“Thomas’ old master, Daud,” Garrett explained, “was Marked. Daud was able to share his powers with his gang. A diluted version, but still powerful. It’s what Delilah is doing with the witch-guard.”

“Can _you_ do that?” Erin asked Corvo. “Share your powers with whoever you want?”

“No,” Corvo replied.

If he were honest with himself, he’d never _tried_ to share them – he had no idea how Daud had done it, but something told him he didn’t have the ability to confer his gifts to others. In any case, he had nobody to share them _with;_ nobody he could fully trust in the Tower (aside from Emily, and he would sooner remove his own hand than share the terrible nature of his gifts with her).

Thomas wasn’t looking in his direction – he was staring down into the chest – but Corvo noted a faint twitch in the Whaler’s left hand when he answered Erin’s question.

He didn’t ask why. If Thomas was _jealous –_ then that was his problem to handle.

“Shame,” Erin said. “It would have been useful for us all to have an edge.”

“What’s this one?” Garrett asked, pulling another bone charm from the chest. It was like the others, but the white of the whalebone was blackened and harsh, and Corvo could practically _see_ the shuddering of the air around it.

“Sometimes the forging of the charms is not always- _perfect,”_ Thomas said. “Charms become corrupted, and any benefit they provide also comes with a cost. Sometimes the reward is worth the risk. _This one-“_ he took the charm from Garrett’s hand, peered at it. “ _Zephyr,”_ he said. “You move quickly – _very_ quickly – but any wound you receive is far more damaging than it should be. I would not use it unless I had no other choice.”

He pocketed the item; Corvo was almost _relieved_ to see it out of sight.

“So, combining them all would make someone a very difficult-to-catch thief. Or assassin,” Erin said.

Thomas nodded. “Yes.”

“Well, you’re probably gonna need them,” Erin replied, as Garrett closed the chest and moved to a table near to the bed. He peered up at the shelves there, before pulling a sheet of parchment from it and crossing back to the chest.

“We would need less if you agreed to help,” he said, laying out the parchment – a map.

“Garrett, I already _told_ you-“

“Can we _not_ have this argument again?” Corvo interrupted. “You’ve been bickering ever since we left the crypt – I don’t even know _what_ you’re arguing about.”

“The record keeper’s library is under the House of Blossoms,” Garrett said. “I haven’t been back there in almost six years – the entrance I used might have fallen into disrepair or have been discovered. _Erin_ knows the place better than I do.”

“And _I_ said I’d never go back,” Erin said, folding her arms. “But Mister ‘ _I-work-alone’_ here seems to think that if he keeps pestering me, I’ll join you all on your witch hunt.”

“If you’re not coming,” Corvo asked, “then why are you here? Why did you come up here with us?”

Garrett’s and Erin’s fractured relationship was still somewhat of a mystery to Corvo. He knew they’d worked together before, but their partnership had soured somepoint prior to the incident at Northcrest Manor; Garrett had intimated that they’d been unknowingly partnered together for that. As far as Corvo had been aware, Erin hadn’t reappeared in the City before Garrett had come to Dunwall, and he didn’t know how recently she’d returned. But, apparently, they hadn’t mended whatever was broken between them.

“I don’t need to explain myself to you,” she replied. “I don’t know you- and you certainly don’t know _me,_ no matter what Garrett’s told you.”

“Erin-“ Garrett began-

“Don’t,” Erin snapped. “Don’t think that this- this _attempt_ to include me is anything other than your screwed-up way of trying to make amends. You- we thought you were _dead,_ Garrett. You left us _nothing –_ Basso was driven nearly out of his mind trying to figure out what happened, and when you _do_ come back it’s with two complete strangers and some- some _bullshit_ story about witches and the Primal – half of which you’ve been sitting on for _five years_. But _not once_ did you think that maybe _I_ needed to know about it.”

Her gaze had turned hard; blue eyes burning into Garrett, who was looking down at the map. Her eyes were the same colour as the Primal, Corvo reflected; most likely not a coincidence.

“Not only do you come back with _barely_ an explanation and the revelation that you’ve had the Primal stone for _five years,_ but you then tell me that I’m just- I’m _supposed_ to walk back into the House of Blossoms like _nothing_ happened- for- well, for _what?_ For these _people?”_ she gestured to Corvo, and Thomas, both stood somewhat awkwardly. “For _you?_ For the _Primal?_ Did you _forget_ what happened the last time? What happened to _me?”_

“I didn’t,” Garrett answered, eventually, quietly. “Of _course_ I didn’t forget, but-“

“But _what,_ Garrett?” Erin asked – and whatever composure Garrett had been holding since he’d arrived in Dunwall _snapped._

“But _when_ was I supposed to tell you about it?” he retorted, harshly. “While you were gone – half a _world_ away – and leaving me with no clue if you were actually _alive?_ When you came back and immediately made it clear that you wanted _nothing_ to do with me? Was I supposed to send a letter – _Dear Erin, I hope you’re well – by the way, I have the Primal stone and there are worlds beyond our own –_ or was I just supposed to tell Basso and hope he’d pass the message on to you?”

Corvo opened his mouth to speak – to interrupt and stop Garrett saying something he’d maybe regret, but-

“As for my _disappearance-_ well, I was in the Cradle for a week, you could have always stopped by for a visit. You know, between them _tarring_ my hand or _tearing_ out my eye. But- maybe you were waiting for my _execution –_ see the great master thief hang for all his crimes and finally be rid of the _plague_ on your life. But I had to go and ruin that, didn’t I- I had to _escape_ and _crawl_ my way up here, only for _Delilah_ to find me and _then_ get hold of the thing I kept _up here_ so nothing like what happened to _you_ could happen again-“

He wasn’t quite shouting, but there was something _vicious_ in his tone; relentless and almost _mocking._

“-And then I had to go and _disappear_ on you – get myself struck by lightning and thrown across the Void to land in the middle of a fucking _sewer_ of a city – well, send my deepest apologies to _Basso_ for not thinking of him – or you – when clearly, I should have been.”

The tower fell silent. Even Garrett looked surprised at his outburst; he turned away and crossed back to the bed, sat down and buried his head in his hands.

If Corvo were being honest, he didn’t know Garrett very well. He’d only spent a short time with him before, but what he _did_ know was that this was probably the greatest loss of control he’d seen from the other man.

He knew the effects of prison – of _torture._ He’d experienced them himself, and knew it would take a long time for Garrett to shake the effects of what had happened.

(Corvo was still having trouble getting rid of the effects of Coldridge, some five years later.)

But _this-_ this was more. A long-held anger and sadness coming to full force; probably directed in the wrong direction but lashed out at the only outlet provided to it.

Erin didn’t respond. Her face was hard, like stone; she too, turned away, moved towards the other side of the tower, where the cases and paintings were. Corvo heard the distinct _thunk_ of a knife hitting woodwork.

And then it was just him and Thomas, staring down at a map of the city.

Corvo sighed, ran a hand through his hair, wondering how on _earth_ he was going to salvage this mess – he could barely deal with the diplomacy back home – when Thomas shifted next to him.

“I’ll talk to her,” he said, quietly, nodding his head to Erin, before smoothly stepping away and crossing the room.

Corvo supposed that meant he was supposed to talk to Garrett.

He turned, walked towards the seated figure, trying to figure out the right words to _say_ or even-

His foot caught on a sheet of paper, causing his boot to skid slightly on the smooth surface and crinkle the parchment. Upon picking it up, he discovered it was a hand drawn picture – folded and crumpled, but the corners were torn, like it had been fixed upon the wall at one point but had been torn off recently with haste.

With a jolt, he realised it was the drawing Emily had presented to Garrett, long ago – two people falling from the Kingsparrow Lighthouse and a third on the catwalk above. He smiled, looking at the three figures, before sitting down on the empty part of the bed and passing the paper to Garrett.

“I wondered if you’d kept it,” he said, as Garrett peered down at the drawing.

“It _was_ up here,” Garrett said, quietly, gesturing to the wall above the head of the bed – Corvo could see the torn-off corner of the page. “Guess Delilah didn’t like it.”

“You put it above your bed?” Corvo asked, half-disbelieving and half- almost _pleased_ at the revelation.

Garrett huffed out a breath, something forlorn inside it, before he nodded, placing the drawing on the desk next to the bed.

“The one time I didn’t ruin a life,” he said. “I thought- I don’t know- I thought that having it here would help me remember. That _once_ I did something good with my life.”

“Saved an empire,” Corvo said. “Saved Emily’s life – saved _my_ life, really.”

He looked down at his hands, at the brand on the back of his left, before adding, quietly, “I don’t know what I would have done if I’d lost her.”

Garrett didn’t reply; stared down at the floor.

“Erin’s right, you know,” he said eventually. “I- I could have made more of an effort. _Should_ have. All I’m doing now is making it worse.”

“Did you know,” Corvo began, surprising himself, “that I have a sister?”

Garrett shook his head – understandably so; the short amount of time they’d spent together before hadn’t exactly been one where they’d discussed personal histories, after all.

“Beatrici,” he confirmed, even though _saying_ her name pulled on old wounds that would never fully heal. “She was – _is_ – the adventurer. We used to climb all over Karnaca together, watch the ships sailing in and out of the harbour. She always wanted to travel on one; head to Dunwall and see the greatest mechanical achievements of the age being _made;_ she wanted to walk across Tyvia, maybe even _Pandyssia-“_

He cut himself off, shifted his position slightly.

“She left when I was still young – after my father died. We think maybe to Morley, but- but I don’t know. I’ll probably never know. She could be-“

He fell silent again.

“The point is,” he said eventually, “I’ll probably never see her again. So when I say I _understand_ your- _anger_ for being left out, and your _regret-_ know that I truly do. I left it too late to find Beatrici.

“Erin’s still here. Whatever her reasons for coming up here – for coming to find you after _all this –_ she _is_ here. And it’s not too late for you to at least _try_ and fix whatever it is that went wrong between you. But- you can’t just expect to force things back to the way they were before. Trust me – it will never go back.”

He stood, somehow not wanting to look at Garrett anymore – _at anyone._ It had been years; Beatrici was long gone and he knew better than to hold on to a naïve hope that she would come back, but-

He moved to stand in front of the clockwork mechanism, gazing up at the interlocking gears and cogs and struts.

“You know how all this works?” he asked, impressed. “Where do you even _start?”_

“Time and persistence,” Garrett replied. “A lot of stolen books, too.”

Footsteps on the wood floor alerted them to Thomas returning; he stood next to the map, peering at the hand-drawn city.

“This is the House of Blossoms?” he asked, pointing to a section of the map. “It’s- _underground?”_

“People say it’s so you pretend it’s always night down there,” Garrett said. “Like the saying – if you want something dirty done-“

“Do I even _want_ to know how that ends?” Corvo asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” Garrett replied, but there was humour in it.

“The Madam found it.” Erin stood next to Thomas – decidedly not near Garrett or Corvo, he noticed – and pointed to a section of the map. “The whole structure was built a long time ago, but it was empty and structurally sound. An underground pleasure house – the _only_ one of its kind – _reeks_ of exclusivity. It also adds security to the patrons who would rather not have their private affairs known. It has few entrances, and they are all watched.”

“Which is where our problem lies,” Garrett said, somewhat delicately, looking steadfastly at the map.

“ _Customer_ entrances are watched,” Erin clarified. “However you got in last time was some kind of fluke, and you can bet the Madam made it her mission to find your way in and plug the leak. But-“

She indicated a row of houses near to what looked like a canal.

“The House doesn’t run supplies in through the front entrance. Bad for business. Instead they go through a system of tunnels – there’s an entrance in one of the apartments here.”

“The apartments are Blossom-owned, too,” Garrett commented.

“They snag people off the street – usually blacktops who can’t afford to go to the House proper or don’t have the time to make the trek down between shift rotations,” Erin said, by way of agreement. “But there are a _lot_ of tunnels – some of them are escape routes for the girls in case things in the House go sour. Feasibly you could get through one without being detected.”

_Blacktop –_ Corvo assumed that was a term for a watch guard. Black helmets, he supposed.

“Where would it put us?” Garrett asked.

Erin shrugged in response. “Kitchens, maybe. Back storerooms, maybe. Each tunnel leads to a different place. But you won’t end up in the main hall or any of the private rooms, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Garrett nodded.

“Are you coming?” Corvo asked – tried to phrase the question the same way he’d ask Emily if she wanted to go to the gazebo in the grounds and visit her mother’s grave. No pressure to go either way, no pressure to do anything she didn’t want to do.

“No,” Erin said, and she regarded Corvo with a long, steady look, before she turned her attention back to the map. “I’ll show you where the entrance is and then be on my way. I’m not getting involved.”

“In infiltrating the House of Blossoms, or-“ Garrett asked-

“All of it,” Erin replied, interrupting. “I- I _can’t_ do it again. I take you to the entrance, and then I’m _done._ ”

Garrett nodded, slowly, almost as if he’d been expecting that answer.

“Fine,” he said quietly – and after his and Erin’s previous outbursts, this felt _worse_ somehow; a quiet understanding that what they’d had _before_ was long gone.

If Erin was surprised at Garrett’s lack of resistance, she didn’t show it.

“Good,” she said, evenly. “Let’s go, then.”

“Now?” Corvo asked, glancing at the window, where the sun had fully risen now.

“Now’s the best time,” Erin countered. “The House is more active at night – they’ll have just closed for business and any deliveries happen at sundown. There’ll be a minimal guard and if you’re lucky the Madam will be conducting business somewhere else. Midday is your best time to get in.”

“Makes sense,” Garrett said, rolling up the map and stowing it back on one of the shelves.

He paused, then, taking a look around the clock tower, up at the peak, where the vines tangled themselves into something like a _tree,_ and back down at the failed mechanism.

It was hard, Corvo knew, to come back to a home that was different to when you’d left. He remembered arriving back in Dunwall Tower after the events at Kingsparrow Lighthouse – how all of his things had been shunted to one side, ready to be destroyed and forgotten.

(There’d also been the nights before, in the Hound Pits – in prison – when he’d even wondered if he’d see those rooms again.)

Now Garrett was having to leave _again,_ and while none of them had discussed it, there was a very distinct possibility that none of them would survive what was coming. Delilah was powerful, and she had allies, _and_ the Primal.

“Let’s go,” Garrett said, quietly, making for the window.

They followed in silence, and at the window Corvo took a moment to gaze out across the unfamiliar landscape. It reminded him of the first time he’d seen Dunwall from the top of the Tower, a long time ago.

He’d been younger then, more idealistic, perhaps; definitely less hurt by the woes of the world. Most of all, he’d been _excited_ at the prospect of exploring this new, vibrant city, and learning all he could.

Garrett was just outside the window, crouched on a protruding beam, looking at the route they would be taking to the ground. He paused, turning to follow Corvo’s gaze.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “It’s probably not as pretty as Dunwall, but- at least _my_ city doesn’t smell like fish.”

The laughter that broke from his chest surprised even Corvo, even if he did receive an odd look from Erin and the ever-present blank stare from Thomas’ mask. Still, it made their descent a somewhat lighter task, and eventually they were back upon the rooftop next to the Tower; it loomed high above them again.

The fog had cleared better; the sun was breaking through it in patches and spreading a weak warmth to the lower areas of the city. Corvo could see the square in front of them better; arrayed all around were small wooden stalls and awnings. Despite the early hour, there was a steady throng of people already wandering between them.

“Market day,” Garrett said. “That makes things easier.”

“It does?” Corvo asked.

Garrett nodded in reply, pulling his hood up. “More people. Easier to hide in a crowd.”

Corvo could see the sense in that – but he could also see the potential for their enemies to better hide, too. He had to keep reminding himself that he wasn’t the Lord Protector here – he had no hierarchical power to fall back on. He was a stranger, a foreigner, almost like when he’d first arrived in Dunwall with only his boots and his sword.

They moved back to the street near the _Crippled Burrick –_ Corvo saw that the inn was quiet; stalls were set up in front of the doors and nobody made their way to the gates at the side.

_A pub that runs only in the night?_ he wondered, but supposed that it fit with the City well enough.

“Put your hood up,” Erin’s voice drew him from his thoughts, and he complied.

“You can do without the mask for now,” Garrett said. “Save that for the House.”

“What about _him?”_ Corvo asked, jerking his head towards Thomas, who was still wearing the Whaler’s mask.

Garrett turned, considered Thomas for a moment.

“I assume you’ve got a good reason for keeping it on,” he said – Thomas nodded. Corvo could see a tension in his shoulders; was it because of _Corvo?_ He was the only person who could potentially recognise Thomas’ face.

“He’ll be fine,” Erin said. “If anyone asks, he’s an act in Vittori’s Dark Carnival.”

Garrett made a distasteful noise in the back of his throat. “ _He’s_ in town again?”

“Why’re you complaining?” Erin asked. “Everyone knows Vittori’s good for business.”

“Who’s- what’s-“ Thomas began, but the question was lost to the air as Erin and Garrett made their way into the square proper.

(Corvo was still petty enough to smirk at that.)

The people in the market seemed more concerned with their purchases and deals than they did with the four of them, but a long-embedded paranoia that came with being the Lord Protector meant that Corvo was more uneasy than ever. He kept close behind Garrett, watching the people around them.

True enough, not many seemed bothered or interested in their attire – many were also wearing hoods and cloaks to combat the winter chill, and Corvo saw that there were people in all sorts of differing dress. The City had a port, Corvo knew, and the market probably drew people from far and wide for both basic and more exotic supplies.

They moved through the crowds at a steady pace – Corvo’s height gave him a slight advantage in that the sea of people parted naturally to let them through – following Garrett and Erin towards a large set of gates that were currently open. Guards were posted either side; Corvo noted that Garrett adjusted his cloak to cover his bandaged right hand, and tugged his hood closer to his face, as if he were simply shielding himself better from the cold.

In any case, none of the guards seemed that bothered by them – they were far more interested in a fight that had broken out over a wheel of _cheese_ – and they passed through the gate without incident.

The market thinned out here, crowds dissipated as people moved to their houses and places of work, and soon enough they were able to move without feeling quite so hemmed in.

None of them spoke – Garrett and Erin certainly weren’t going to make small talk with each other, and Corvo had no desire to speak with Thomas – so Corvo found himself listening to the sounds of a bustling, unfamiliar city. Again he recalled his first few days in Dunwall, treading unfamiliar stones and just being part of something _different,_ where nobody knew who you were and for a while you could pretend that you were just that – nobody.

They turned off the main road – _Baron’s Way,_ the map had indicated – to a smaller road that was more like an alleyway than a true street. Beggars lingered on the corners, but the group passed them by without being approached.

A lantern hung in an alcove – red paper that seemed incongruous against white snow and dark wood. Corvo spotted several more along the way, no discernible pattern to their placement, and frowned.

“Do the red lights mean something?” Thomas asked, beating him to the question.

Garrett slowed, turning to share a look with Erin.

“This is the Skin Market,” he said slowly.

“Yeah- why did we come through _here,_ exactly?” Erin asked him.

“It’s better than the Fish Market,” Garrett replied, before turning fully to face Corvo and Thomas. “But-“

“The _Skin Market,”_ Corvo repeated. “As in-“

“As in the red lights mean that there’s someone in a house who’s ready and willing to fu-“

“ _Erin,”_ Garrett cut her off. Erin smirked, folding her arms.

“So what,” she asked Corvo, “do your people not label the whorehouses or the red light district?”

“We don’t really _have_ districts,” he replied, somewhat more discomfited now that he knew the purpose of the red lanterns. “Just- a few places in the city.”

“Sounds like you know a lot about these _places,”_ Erin said.

“You should tell her about that art dealer and his weird taste for electricity,” Garrett said, unhelpfully, as Erin turned an incredulous eye on him. Corvo narrowed his eyes at him, receiving a smirk in response.

“ _You_ pulled the lever too,” he replied, and Garrett huffed out a laugh, before turning back.

“Come on,” he said. “Or they’ll start to think we’re customers who can’t make up our minds.”

The side road lead to a balcony overlooking a canal bed. From what Corvo could see, there wasn’t actually any _water_ in it – just a snowdrift that was piled to one side. On one side of the bed was an entrance surrounded by lanterns.

“That’s the House,” Erin said. A guard was leaning against the door, but the relatively high position of their small group meant that he didn’t spot them. As Corvo watched, he noted the man seemed more interested in the door than anything around it.

“How do we get in?” he asked.

“There,” Erin said, pointing to one side of the canal, opposite the door. “One of the bricks is loose – it’s a button. Push it, the door above you opens, and you’re on your way in.”

“Awfully close to the real entrance,” Garrett said, peering at the buildings. “I don’t think anybody’s up – aside from him,” he nodded to the guard.

“I’ll handle him,” Thomas said, pushing himself off the railing.

“Just-“ Garrett began, “don’t kill him.”

Thomas turned his head toward Garrett, levelling him with a long look, but he nodded, bringing his left hand up to traverse the distance.

“That’s still unsettling,” Erin muttered, watching as Thomas reappeared behind the guard, expertly wrapping his arms around his neck in a chokehold. Corvo narrowed his eyes – Thomas had clearly had expert training in his time, and he could hazard a guess at where said training came from.

The guard fell easily, and Thomas carefully hefted his unconscious form over his shoulder, carrying him to a sheltered spot just near the door. As the others crossed to the side of the canal, Corvo saw that Thomas was scuffing at the snow with his boot – masking any sign of a struggle – before making tracks between the door and the guard’s body.

Clever – a ruse so that it would simply appear that the guard had decided to take a nap.

“If I had whiskey it would work better,” he said, noticing Corvo’s gaze.

Erin’s button was on the other side of the canal from the House’s door, but Corvo kept his eye on it anyway. For a brothel, it was extremely well protected – more than the Golden Cat or any of the other places in Dunwall.

Garrett was scanning the wall near to where Erin had pointed, and Corvo had to focus for a moment before his eyes picked out what the other man was looking at. There were _symbols_ etched into the wall, some kind of marks that looked recently added – other, faded versions could also be seen. The most recent was a set of five.

 

Garrett noticed his gaze.

“Thieves’ code,” he said. “We mark locations to show their… _viability-_ changes in the guard and the like _._ The House is slightly different in that we also pass messages to each other here. Sometimes meetings are called, if the reason’s important enough.”

“Like a dead drop,” Thomas said. Corvo knew that was how the Whalers communicated – Curnow was always attempting to find leaks in their system, but the locations of said drops changed weekly and they’d never been able to pin down more than one or two messages.

“Similar,” Garrett conceded, “but a dead drop can be stolen. Nobody gives up the secrets of the code.”

“So what does it mean?” Corvo asked.

“The flower symbol means this is a meeting place – the _House of Blossoms,_ of course. This one means that there are people here who are anti-Watch. Sometimes good, sometimes bad.”

“How do you know if it’s good or bad?”

“You don’t, to start with. You hope, test your luck, and remember for next time,” Garrett said. “But the symbol’s fairly new – the Graven used it, we adopted it to better mark potential friendlies. The House? Definitely not friendly to me. Anyway, _this_ symbol means that there’s a chance the whole place’ll flood in bad weather; especially through entrances people like us are prone to using.”

“What are the two underneath?” Thomas asked. “They look newer.”

“Those’re Garrett’s additions,” Erin said, impatiently. “He asked some kid from Cinderfall to change all the codes in the city before he left. _Go to ground_ and _be on the lookout._ But other than the announcement of the witch-guard, there’s been _nothing_ to look out for _.”_

“There’ll be something,” Garrett said quietly, but he didn’t push the issue further. “Where’s this entrance of yours?” he asked, instead.

Erin gestured to the wall behind him, and after a few moments careful examination Garrett’s hand came to rest on a brick. Corvo had to admire with uncanny _speed_ with which he found it – years of practice and experience making themselves known.

He pushed it, and the wooden floor of a house above them _creaked,_ before swinging open.

“Clever,” Garrett said.

He peered up at the hole, as if trying to find a way he could climb up. Corvo squinted at it, before looking around himself.

“Here,” he said, placing his hand on Garrett’s shoulder and blinking them up into the hole. It left less of a trace, after all.

They were inside of some kind of apartment _basement,_ if such a thing existed. A door was set into the wall, locked and bolted, and several crates were piled high on one side. A bookshelf rested against another wall – judging by the stonework around it and the markings on the floor, though, it was simply there to hide _another_ entrance, presumably the tunnel to the House.

After a moment, Thomas joined them, alone.

“I’m not going any farther,” Erin said, beneath them. “I’ll go find Basso and get him to meet you at the _Siren’s Rest_ when you’re done here.”

Garrett nodded.

“We could-“ he began, before cutting himself off. “Thanks,” he said instead. “Stay safe.”

“You too,” Erin told him, sounding sincere. “The Madam doesn’t fuck around. Neither do her people. Remember that.”

She disappeared from view, pulling up her hood and ducking back out into the snow. Garrett sighed, kicking at the side of the hole, activating the mechanism to close the door.

“Let’s go,” he said, turning toward the bookshelf.

* * *

 

The tunnel was long, dark, and cold.

Garrett recalled his previous descent to the House of Blossoms, trailing a customer and his guard, but this tunnel was clearly less used. He’d managed to uncover some lanterns at the top, probably used by those who had to traverse the tunnel, but the meagre light provided by the one they’d taken was barely enough to see by. It was hooded, and he’d covered it almost completely, lest they met anyone on the way down and needed to hide their position. While he was used to working in the dark there was something about the tunnel that just- _unsettled._

(The cold stone walls reminded him of the Cradle, no matter how hard he tried to ignore the fact.)

They didn’t speak as they descended – Garrett knew better than to expect Corvo and Thomas to make conversation with each other, and he was trying to calm his own nerves more than anything else.

Erin’s warning still rang clear in his mind. She was right; the Madam was a formidable woman, practically holding a knife to the throat of every noble who visited her establishment. Her girls were adept at prying secrets from almost everyone, and their open disdain for the General and his Black Tax was formidable, considering the retribution that could be brought against them for it.

He wasn’t used to open defiance. Thievery was the quieter sort, where the ramifications of your actions had an impact the perpetrator rarely saw. Garrett wasn’t the naïve type of person that called it a _victimless_ crime; but it was subversion rather than direct rebellion.

The House of Blossoms stood on a knife-edge. The fact it was frequented by the nobles and the guard force alike meant that it was unlikely to ever be run into the ground by the General or anyone else, but the _threat_ was always there. And threat meant defence.

A squeak drew him from his contemplation – he raised the lantern to see a rat scurry away into a dark outlet on the side of the wall.

“Still get shivers around rats,” Thomas said, suddenly.

“They’re smaller, here,” Corvo said, voice slightly muffled by his mask – he and Garrett had covered their faces once they’d entered the tunnel, just in case.

“I never asked,” Garrett began, somehow relieved for the break in silence, “did you cure the plague?”

“Yes,” Corvo replied. “A few months after you left. The _S &J Health Elixir _was distributed to the Empire. Sokolov and Piero worked off the combined serum you made to get through the Flooded District.”

“Did they ever make it taste better?” Garrett asked.

“No.”

Garrett snorted, lifting the lantern slightly higher to peer down the dark length of the tunnel. Still no end in sight – and the entrance was still far behind them. It had been gently curving all the way down, but he had no idea what direction they were headed in now.

“Thomas,” he said, bringing up a question he’d had since the Clock Tower. “What did you say to Erin to convince her to help?”

“I didn’t say anything,” Thomas replied, after a moment. Garrett paused, glancing back at him, watching the lantern’s light reflect in the eyes of his mask.

“I don’t know what happened between you,” he continued, “but I do know what it’s like to talk and not be listened to. To be _asked_ to do things and be unable to refuse- do you know why Erin doesn’t want to come back here?”

Garrett nodded – he remembered seeing the flashes of memory, and hearing the story from Erin herself, but-

“Sometimes _asking_ is too much, in the end,” Thomas said. “And _force_ is even worse. Avery never goes to the Mutcherhaven District anymore. There are some of us who don’t like to go to the Flooded District now, despite the fact it was our _home_ for several years. There are even places that _I_ don’t often return to. But I don’t _force_ any of my people to go anywhere. I listen to them, and then find a compromise. _Erin_ just needed somebody to listen. So- I didn’t _say_ anything.”

_Was he asking too much? Were his attempts to reconnect simply pushing Erin further away?_

Garrett didn’t speak, in the end, flexing his hand around the lantern’s handle instead.

His bandaged hand was aching, but he was trying to ignore it.

“We’re here,” Corvo said, forestalling any response. He pointed at a door set into the wall; the end of the tunnel.

Garrett was glad for the interruption. He passed the lantern back to Corvo, crouching to peer through the keyhole.

The room on the other side of the door was dark, but it looked to be some sort of storeroom, fittingly. As a precaution, he activated the Eye, peering through the wood and stone to see if any life forms were actually nearby.

The entire right side of his face _throbbed_ with pain, and he winced, breaking away for a second.

He heard Corvo shift behind him-

“I’m fine,” he said quietly.

He’d seen all he could. It was deserted.

He stood up slowly, trying to shake the chill from his limbs and alleviate the ache he felt practically _everywhere,_ pulling out his lockpicks and setting about shifting the lock.

After a few moments silence, he frowned, withdrew the picks, and pulled open the door.

“Did you just try and pick an _unlocked_ door?” Corvo asked as they stepped inside.

Already he could taste opium on the back of his tongue, and he adjusted his mask slightly instead of answering.

The door _should_ have been locked. The entrance was barely-used but a definite weak spot. The Madam knew better than to leave a weak spot unguarded.

But- there was nobody around. And Garrett was trying to shake the unsettling, prickling feeling he was getting on the back of his neck.

It was hard, to come back after a failure. He’d experienced it before – never a failure quite as bad as Bafford Manor – and he knew that the best remedy was to simply _carry on._ But the mind played tricks, made you second-guess and hesitate where you wouldn’t have before.

_The Madam’s smarter than the General. She knows you’re useful,_ he told himself, as he cast his gaze around the room they were in. _And this time, you’re not alone._

“I know where we are,” he said, somewhat relieved that he didn’t have to try and figure out his way from here. “The opium distributor is in here.”

“The _what?”_ Corvo muttered, as they moved through another door to come out behind the tank itself.

“They pump it through the whole house,” Garrett explained. “It makes the guests more… _malleable,”_ he settled on. “It also makes them addicted to coming back here, if only for another hit.”

“Where are we headed?” Thomas asked. “How far is it?”

“The Madam’s office,” Garrett replied. “It’s on the next floor.”

He lead them across the room, careful to keep his eye on the nearby kitchen, where he could hear the quiet murmur of voices and the rattling of pans.

When he’d last been here, the General had brought a patrol of guards with him. Garrett knew that the Madam hadn’t let them back since, instead preferring that the House be defended by those who lived in it. But familiarity bred complacency – and there had been no raid against the House for a very long time; be it thief, rival, or otherwise.

The door to the main hall was unlocked, too. Garrett peered through the keyhole, spying a girl walking towards the west stairs. The shutters made it difficult to tell if anyone else was there, but a quick check with the Eye (with another painful wince as he did so) showed there to be nobody close enough to them.

“It’s up there,” he pointed, once they were through the door. The place hadn’t changed much over the years – soft furnishings, red silk, somewhat decadent-looking ornaments almost everywhere. Trays of half-eaten fruit rested on low tables, and Garrett could also see several discarded items of clothing underneath one of the couches nearby. Their owner wasn’t around, and he had a brief, humorous thought imagining said owner having to flee the House without them.

The House was quiet. Almost deathly so. He knew a business in its downtime was different to one in full trade, but this was almost _unsettling._ And the problem _was-_ he couldn’t tell if it was normally like this or just his paranoia setting in. It could also be a reaction to the code changes – he knew some Blossoms conversed enough with thieves to know when to act and when to hide, and undoubtedly the Madam knew, too.

Erin would know if this was normal. It was one of the reasons he’d wanted her to come with them – she _knew_ how the House worked.

But _he_ knew that he’d asked too much of her.

“I’ll go first,” Thomas volunteered, quietly. “I’ll signal you if it’s clear.”

He disappeared before either Garrett or Corvo could answer – Garrett had a moment to reflect that Thomas was also well-used to sneaking into places he shouldn’t.

Neither he nor Corvo spoke; they were still somewhat close to the kitchen and were both listening for the sound of anyone coming back.

Thomas appeared at the edge of the balcony above them, waving them up. Corvo settled his hand on Garrett’s shoulder, and suddenly they were up on the second floor.

He’d forgotten how _easy_ having a friend with the Mark made things. It made _him_ complacent, too, in that he didn’t have to figure out his escape route down to the detail he normally would. As it stood right now the way they came in was good enough. If not, then he knew where the front door was.

The door to the Madam’s office was locked – and he was almost _relieved_ to find it so. He drew his picks, finding that she’d upped the security in the past five years. A challenge, yes, but one that he still managed to defeat relatively quickly.

“This place seems… _quiet,”_ Corvo said, when they were inside the office.

“I know,” Garrett agreed. “Could be the girls are in the private rooms, or downstairs. The Madam must be out.”

“Let’s hope she stays out,” Thomas said. “Erin made her sound like someone we shouldn’t cross.”

“The entrance was over here,” Garrett said, carefully stepping across the room to a painting mounted on the wall. He stood, casting his gaze over it. The painting was different to last time – a smaller frame and a different image. She’d probably moved the switch.

But to _where?_

“There’s a safe here,” Corvo said, from across the room. “Do you think you can crack it?”

“Not without the code,” Garrett replied, still looking at the painting, trying to see if there was any sign of the trapdoor’s mechanism in the surrounding woodwork. “She would have changed it.”

“There’s a journal here,” Thomas said, from beside the desk. He peered at the contents, brushing a few errant rose petals aside as he did so.

“ _The witch has taken more for her own,”_ he read. _“She lures them with promises of power and wealth and_ vengeance, _things that tug on the girl’s hearts and seeds doubt at my leadership. The House has endured such undermining before, and it will do so again. I’ll show this Delilah exactly what it means to cross the House.”_

“Delilah’s recruiting Blossoms,” Garrett realised. “That’d certainly make the Madam angry.”

“Do you think she could be persuaded to help us?” Corvo asked.

Garrett shrugged his shoulder. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “She’s… _fickle,_ and she’ll hold a grudge longer than most. But I suppose she might be willing to overlook past transgressions if we offered her something she wanted.”

“Dissension shouldn’t be taken lightly,” Thomas said. “If it’s not addressed quickly, it’ll lead to ruin.”

Something in his tone suggested to Garrett that Thomas knew exactly what he was talking about.

He turned his attention back to the painting, feeling around the frame for a switch of some sort.

Nothing. The Madam had changed the unlocking mechanism, too. He swore, quietly.

“It might be inside the safe, now,” he reasoned. A dual layer of security that wasn’t uncommon to the City.

“Daud used to be able to see mechanisms through walls,” Thomas said. “He could find his way through Walls of Light and security systems easily. Could uncover any secret doors and wiring.”

“Lucky him,” Garrett commented, turning back to the desk to see if the Madam had been foolish enough to leave something indicating the code lying around. Probably a naïve hope, but it was either that or he was having to start tapping the walls for weaknesses.

“What was the code last time? Do you remember?” Corvo asked. “Maybe she cycles through them every few months or so – it’s what a lot of the elite back home does.”

“573,” Garrett told him automatically; while Corvo’s reasoning was sound he doubted it would work. As Corvo span the dials, he examined the desk more thoroughly, checking to see if there were any secret or locked compartments on it. People liked to hide their things close to their beds or places of work. Places they visited and used often.

_Clunk._

“Did that-“ Thomas began, as both he and Garrett slowly turned to face Corvo, who was reaching to open the safe.

And then Garrett remembered what _else_ had been protecting the safe.

_“Wait-“_ he started, trying to move to stop Corvo, but the safe wasn’t actually _open_ -

He registered the sharp sting of pain in his thigh before he heard the sound of the trap activating. Gears clattering, the high-pitched whistle of somekind- _arrows._ Looking down, he spotted two small barbs sticking out of his leg. Corvo had managed to move out of the way, but he’d received one in his arm; even Thomas wasn’t unscathed, he somehow managed to get three darts in his lower leg.

_Multiple sources of the darts, designed to trap anyone in the room. Overkill._

_“Fuck,”_ he muttered, pulling out the dart and bringing it up to his face. “They’re laced with poison.”

“What kind?” Thomas asked, reaching out to grip the desk.

Already Garrett could feel his legs starting to shake as the poison took effect. He yanked his mask down, tasted the edge of the barb and spat.

“ _Curare,”_ he said. “Fast acting – paralytic – and probably with something else added to it-“

His legs gave way suddenly, and he crashed painfully to the floor. He couldn’t feel his feet anymore, and his hands were slowly numbing. Dimly, he noticed Corvo falling, too, but he then couldn’t turn his head, couldn’t _do_ anything.

He’d seen the effects of curare before. Knew it wasn’t lethal, but it was still _terrifying,_ to be unable to do anything and barely able to _breathe_ and _entirely_ at someone else’s mercy.

The door to the office opened, a quick step moved across the floor to stand just outside of Garrett’s now very-limited periphery.

“Well, that worked better than planned,” said the voice of the Madam.

* * *

 

_"She has no mouth with which to kiss,_  
_no hands with which to caress,_  
_only the fangs and talons of a beast of prey."_

_Angela Carter; **The Lady of the House of Love.**_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter actually ended earlier than planned, but I think it'll suit the story far better in the long run. Plus - I didn't want to leave everyone hanging forever!!
> 
> Curare is a paralytic poison, and while I've sped up how fast it acts it was actually once considered as an anaesthetic. Old medicine is wild y'all. The antidote (which will be administered next chapter) is also going to sound weird, and I'll admit that my research is very basic. But hey. We're writing/reading a story about people w/ supernatural powers.
> 
> I probably had way more to say but I can't remember any of it now so.
> 
> Thieves' code image/description can be found here: http://wardens-oath.tumblr.com/post/161618755952/ccchap3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And this helps you – us – deal with Delilah- how, exactly?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.  
> Garrett shrugged his shoulder. “I’m not entirely sure yet.”  
> “And do you often look for such- items or information without knowing why you’re doing so?”  
> Garrett snorted. “Madam, you just described half of my job.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy late Halloween lads. I really tried to get this out for that day but things got a lil away from me.  
> also this chapter is way later than i intended anyway simply bc i am garbage.
> 
> Thank you all for the kind reviews and the patience!! I hope you all enjoy this chapter!  
> As always my thanks go to tumblr users cometoruin and sneaky-taffer - please send them love!
> 
> Also maybe y'all can play the game of "how many references did Caitlin throw into this chapter"

_“A boy without words looked up at the moon.  
He sang in a language he should never have known.”_

_Samantha Shannon; **The Mime Order.**_

* * *

They’d known. The whole House had been waiting for them.

That was clear by the sheer amount of people who came to secure Garrett, Corvo and Thomas to chairs in the centre of the Madam’s office. And they couldn’t do anything to resist – Garrett noticed Corvo’s Mark burning a bright white but nothing _came_ of it, and it soon faded to its regular black. Thomas didn’t move a muscle; didn’t even make a sound as he was manhandled into restraints.

Garrett couldn’t speak. Could only blink and move his eyes a little to watch the girls move around them; focus on trying to keep his breathing steady. Curare could paralyse the lungs, if the dosage was too high, and he was acutely aware of the _tightness_ in his chest that wasn’t aided by his previously-injured ribs.

Soon they were sat in front of her desk – apparently waiting – as the Madam regarded them all with a keen gaze.

“Truly the world has overturned itself. Witches walk the streets at night, and so the thieves must try and plunder the daylight hours instead.”

He’d expected her to gloat. Her words indicated just how closely she and the Blossoms watched the City and those who moved around in it. He briefly wondered how many girls she’d lost to Delilah and her newly formed coven.

A Blossom crossed into his field of view, waiting for some command from the Madam. At her nod, she grasped Garrett by the chin, forcing his head back and pouring _something_ into his mouth. He couldn’t resist or do _anything –_ after a few moments he coughed and spluttered as the pain in his chest eased.

“Coffee,” he rasped, forcing his jaw to work as the bitter taste registered. Coffee was a somewhat easy-to-come-by antidote to curare, if not the most effective. It would work, slowly.

“Well,” said the Madam, “we couldn’t risk you dying because your lungs were paralysed. Plus I need you _talking._ ”

He still couldn’t move much – his fingers tingled and he could turn his head a little, but everything else was- distant and far away. Distant – but not _disconnected._ He could feel everything acutely, he just couldn’t _move_ anything. But he focused on what he _could_ do, hating that he was _helpless_ once more and at the mercy of someone else _again._

The Blossom didn’t administer the antidote to Corvo or Thomas, he noted, but she _did_ remove their masks. Whatever the Madam expected to see underneath, Garrett could tell she momentarily floored by the clear _foreignness_ in Corvo’s features.

In his periphery, Garrett noted that Corvo’s hand twitched slightly. Considering he could barely move his _head,_ let alone his hands, he inferred that the other man was likely less affected by the poison – or the Mark gave him a certain resistance to it. He recalled that Corvo had recovered fairly quickly after the betrayal by the Loyalists, even though he didn’t know what the man had been poisoned with back then.

He couldn’t see Thomas clearly – just a flash of dark hair, shaved on the sides and longer on top, and a skin tone a fraction lighter than Corvo’s. From what he could surmise – not a Dunwall local.

“So, Garrett,” the Madam began, conversationally, drawing his attention away and forcing him to push his lingering curiosity aside for now, “I see once again the papers have exaggerated wildly. You are not as dead as they say.”

She held up a newspaper which bore the headline: _STONEMARKET THIEF DIES DURING ESCAPE ATTEMPT, GENERAL AIDED BY DELILAH KALDWIN._

“You should know better than to trust the media,” Garrett responded, voice catching with each word.

“Indeed,” she agreed, leaning forward to examine him closer. “Tell me- what was the Cradle like? I’ve heard _stories_ about that place, but none firsthand.”

He hadn’t been expecting her to be quite so forward, and his surprise registered. He blinked, slowly, as memories rose unbidden in his mind – were those _vines_ around his arms, or _ropes_? Were they-

She noticed his discomfort; her eyes glinting with some undetectable emotion, knowing she had the upper hand for now.

“The General still has the bounty out on you, you know,” she said. “It seems he wasn’t convinced by your demise, either. But it makes one _wonder –_ how _did_ you survive?”

“Natural talent,” he said, fixing her with a look that clearly indicated his desire for her to simply _get on with it._

The House of Blossoms was a house built on a network of deception, bought and blackmailed loyalty, but above all – _power._ It was underhand, back-alley dealt, but it was power nonetheless. The Madam could rival the General and even the Barons in some respects, and that made her a dangerous player; one who you had to be careful with your words around. But Garrett had no time for her games today.

He flexed his hand, trying to test his bindings, but there was still too much poison in his system; he could twitch a few fingers, but nothing more.

In the corner of his eye, he saw Corvo’s brand flicker again, but he didn’t look, lest he drew the Madam’s attention to it. As it stood right now, Garrett couldn’t risk potentially losing what little leverage they might gain if Corvo were to recover quickly.

“If you don’t want to answer _me,”_ she said, “I could send Laurel here to find Lady Kaldwin and have _her_ question you. She apparently did rather _well_ the last time.”

“You wouldn’t,” Garrett replied, quickly, eyes narrowing, ignoring the dim flare of _panic_ in the back of his mind.

“Wouldn’t I?” she asked, fingers tapping themselves together as she levelled him with a steely gaze.

“It won’t get your girls back,” Garrett said simply – and _that_ drew the Madam’s attention. “Because _that’s_ what you’d want from it, right? And you’re smart enough to know that. You’re also smart enough to want to hear what I _know_ about Delilah.”

There was a moment of silence, wherein Garrett found himself under the Madam’s gaze. She considered him for a few moments, before speaking again.

“Fine,” she said, “let us do away with the… _pleasantries._ Why are you here, Garrett? Expecting to steal from me while times are hard?”

“No,” he said, shortly. Judging by her reaction, she hadn’t been expecting him to answer quite so honestly.

“Well- _good._ Because, trust me, your punishment would have been a _lot_ worse than what the General gave you.”

Her eyes flitted to his bandaged hand, and her smile grew almost imperceptibly wider.

“So why _are_ you here, then?” she asked. “And where did you find these friends of yours? Not from here, certainly.”

“Ketterdam,” Garrett said, not seeing the need to tell her the truth about that part, mostly because it would take time they didn’t have. “But I won’t tell you _anything_ until you give them the antidote. They’re no good to any of us if they can’t breathe.”

There was a long moment while she considered him. They both knew that Garrett didn’t have any true leverage, here, but he wasn’t about to fold at the first sign of trouble. But eventually, she smiled, nodded to the Blossom still holding the steaming cup, and they both watched as the antidote was administered to Corvo and Thomas.

“I suggest you start talking,” the Madam said, threat lacing her words despite her light tone.

Garrett didn’t speak for a moment, judging the situation before him.

“We’re trying to stop Delilah,” he said eventually. “We need access to the library under the House.”

He’d considered lying, making some sort of elaborate excuse, but some part of him rationalised that the Madam was not the enemy. Making another right now wasn’t going to gain _any_ of them any favours, and any lies he _did_ have to tell were best situated inside the truth. And she’d been sitting on the library for _years._ She had to know more about what was inside the place.

The Madam raised an eyebrow – detecting he was telling the truth and trying to hide her intrigue.

“And you decided to simply break in – _like last time?”_ she asked, sceptical. “What _exactly_ do you expect to find down there?”

Garrett shrugged, finding that he could move his shoulders again.

“Honestly – I don’t know. Thought I’d already taken the valuable stuff last time I was there. But it’s our only solid lead to stopping Delilah.”

“Why bring your- accomplices?” she asked, settling on the word after a moment. “ _They_ were the ones who drew our notice, after all - you and I both know you’re capable enough to get in here without them. You _have_ done before. But now you need- _help._ Did Delilah _rattle_ you?” she asked, grinning for a moment.

“No,” Garrett replied, ignoring her smirk. “I brought _them_ because they stand a far better chance of getting to Delilah than me. And, if the need arose – to show you exactly what you’re facing.”

The Madam frowned, as Garrett caught a glimpse of Corvo’s brand flickering again – except _this_ time it was a sustained burst of light that even drew the attention of the Blossom nearby.

Corvo’s head moved, the barest inch, but enough for him to catch Garrett’s eye. He blinked, slowly, eye moving to face the Madam again, but Garrett understood.

(Or, he hoped he did. Otherwise his next move was about to have a surprising outcome for all of them.)

“How so?” the Madam asked.

“Corvo,” Garrett said-

It had been a good many years since Garrett had seen the effects of someone bending time around them, but he remembered the sensation acutely. A _ripple_ of grey spread out from Corvo’s chair, followed by the sound of splintering wood, and then-

Corvo was stood by the Madam, mask on, crossbow in one hand, sword in the other, and levelling the tip of it by the Madam’s ear. A minute tremor ran through his body, but other than that he bore no other signs that he’d been recently poisoned. The chair was in pieces on the floor next to Corvo; on his other side, Thomas released an amused snort, flexing his own hands in an attempt to generate feeling in them.

“I have _them,”_ Garrett said, “because Delilah will not expect them. And I need _you_ to provide me with an _edge._ ”

“Fine,” said the Madam, after a moment. “On _one_ condition.”

* * *

 

“ _This_ is the best compromise you could come up with?”

“If you hadn’t noticed, Thomas, I was a little preoccupied with trying to save you from curare poisoning,” Garrett retorted, as the Whaler pulled his mask back on.

He’d been keeping his gaze averted, face down and shadowed – probably avoiding Corvo, although _why_ Garrett didn’t know. He knew that Corvo had given the other man a wide berth, either due to their stilted relationship or an ingrained politeness that came with serving the crown. Either way, the other man was currently watching as the Madam opened her safe (a different combination to the one before; Garrett guessed that this one didn’t set off the trap) and pressed a hidden switch inside it.

“Yes, but-“ the assassin cut himself off for a moment, adjusting a glove and flexing his fingers. “Bringing a _civilian?”_

“She’s not _exactly_ a civilian,” Garrett said, before adding, quieter: “It’s also better to let her think she’s still got some power.”

The moment Corvo had broken free, the dynamic in the room had shifted. The Madam knew it acutely well – knew that she wouldn’t catch any of them off-guard enough to recoup her lost leverage – but was still clinging onto the façade. Garrett could respect that, and he also knew that any allowances he made here would be reflected later on – whether they were good or bad was anyone’s guess.

He shifted on his feet, glad he could feel them once more – the Madam had provided them with a better antidote than coffee – but he could tell feel trace amounts of lethargy. The opium-tainted air probably wasn’t helping, and he was glad to feel the cool – if somewhat stale – air of the underground tunnels wash over him.

Thomas didn’t respond, instead turning his attention to the tunnel.

“Follow me, then,” the Madam said, leading them down the steps.

Bringing the Madam to the library wasn’t the best compromise, but in the end Garrett knew that they didn’t have the luxury of time. They’d not really discussed it, but there was the _awareness_ that Delilah was doing _something_ in the City, and they were all scrambling to catch up.

The Madam had been adamant. Whatever they expected to find down there, _she_ wanted to find it too.

He just hoped that the library would provide them with the lead they needed – this _Viktoria._ He could almost picture the Outsider grinning inside the Void, watching their efforts.

“Garrett,” Corvo said, from the doorway, drawing him from his thoughts.

“Coming,” he said shortly, stepping past the taller man and into the tunnel. Corvo didn’t ask him to speak his thoughts, and he was glad for it. He wasn’t sure he could give any assurances.

His head ached; a growing pressure that didn’t seem to be ebbing. He doubted the poison had helped.

The passage to the library seemed to be remarkably unchanged since the last time he’d been here – old stone and wood nestled amongst an older cave system. Yet debris had been cleared, meaning they didn’t have to awkwardly scramble through collapsed masonry and wood, and Garrett could see that some sort of _restoration_ work had been undertaken in the past five years. Lanterns hung on brackets on the walls, but there was still the somewhat-otherworldly glow of the blue poppies that clustered at the base of the stonework.

“You’ve been busy,” he said to the Madam, as they descended past the long-disarmed traps into the round atrium, littered with paper both ancient and modern.

“As infuriating as you were, I couldn’t deny that you _did_ open the way for me,” she conceded. “I’ve been- _researching,_ shall we say. We haven’t been able to get further than the first library, however,” she admitted. “I did not want to risk my girls.”

“Or your profits,” Garrett muttered.

“What was this place?” Corvo asked, forestalling the Madam’s reply – although she still gave Garrett a pointed glare.

Garrett shrugged. “A library – although some parts of this look more like a scriptorium. _Who_ owned it is a question we’ll never get the answer to.”

“Perhaps this _Viktoria’s_ people?” Thomas suggested.

Garrett shook his head in reply. “From what I know of the Woodsie Folk, they didn’t hold libraries sacred. This place is covered in symbols of- _something_ else. The Queen of Beggars intimated they were a separate group anyway.”

“The only name _I_ have been able to uncover is _Keeper,”_ the Madam supplied.

They fell silent again, moving through a doorway that Garrett recalled had been a false bookcase the last time he’d been here. It looked as though the Madam hadn’t gotten much farther than here, though, as the wooden walkway fell away into nothingness beneath them. Water dripped from the ceiling, high above, and bright blue light shone through a key-shaped window. He wondered, briefly, what the meaning was. The Builders symbolised their old constructs with a hammer, which was simple enough to decipher, but the people behind the _keys_ had left almost no trace.

“I may not be a professional, Garrett,” the Madam said, as they gazed across the open expanse to the towers beyond, “but even _I_ know there is nothing of note here. All the books I have found are _blank –_ erased!”

“How do you know they were erased?” he asked, distracted for a second.

“A quill still leaves a mark, even if there is no ink,” she replied. “But that doesn’t answer my question – I know your methods, Garrett; you only return if there is good reason. _What_ do you expect to find here?”

“We’re looking for record of a woman named Viktoria,” Corvo said, leaning over the rail to peer at the abyss below. “This is the best lead we have.”

“And this helps you – _us –_ deal with Delilah- how, exactly?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

Garrett shrugged his shoulder. “I’m not entirely sure yet.”

“And do you _often_ look for such- items or information without knowing _why_ you’re doing so?”

Garrett snorted. “Madam, you just described half of my job.”

The Madam sniffed. “Point taken,” she said eventually. “Well- what did you come here for last time?”

“A book,” Garrett said. “One of the un-erased ones. It was for Orion. I found it up there-“ he pointed to the tallest tower. “Although how _he_ knew about this place, I don’t know. Turned out there was a lot I didn’t know about him.”

“I never liked him,” the Madam confessed. “I found him- _distasteful._ He would preach about a new dawn and overturning the order, but in the end he did the same as anyone else once he tasted power. It’s the same as what Delilah offers now, but nobody will recognise it as such.”

“She took some of your girls,” Thomas said, earning a nod in response.

“Did _you_ meet her?” Corvo asked.

“She came to the House in all her roses and finery,” the Madam said. “But I know false nobility when I see it – I _deal_ in it often enough. She was trying too hard to appear _better,_ but all the younger girls fell to her charms anyway. She promised them freedom from the world of men; offered them power beyond their wildest dreams. The things she could do with those _vines-“_

“I’m aware,” Garrett cut in, an uncomfortable knot forming in his stomach.

“Yes, well – who _wouldn’t_ have been taken in by that?” the Madam asked.

“You weren’t,” Thomas said.

“I know better. I’ve seen falsehood enough times to recognise it.”

“Did _you_ ever meet her?” Corvo asked Thomas. The assassin shook his head.

“Only members of the coven,” he said, “and her statues.”

“Statues?” Garrett frowned.

“Pray you don’t see any,” Thomas replied.

“ _I_ am curious,” the Madam said, as they crossed the gap between the outer walkway and one of the towers – Corvo automatically offering his arm for the Madam to grasp – “ _Who_ exactly are you two? And why such _extravagant_ masks?”

“We- come from the same place,” Corvo settled on; Garrett hid his smirk. “The mask is for- protection.”

“From each other?” the Madam asked, before turning to Thomas. “I saw the way _you_ hid from Master Corvo here.”

“We need to go up there,” cut in Garrett, forestalling the awkward discussion that was bound to follow. He pointed to the central tower. “It stands to reason that all their important documents would be stored in the same place as the book I got for Orion. Last time-“

He moved to the door on the far side of the tower, finding that the rotating staircases were still where he’d left them five years ago. The wood groaned when he put his foot on it, but held; Garrett delicately made his way to the top.

“Be careful,” he called back, moving into the safer, stone interior of the second tower.

“This place is- _elaborate,”_ Thomas said. “They can’t have possibly lived here.”

“No bedrooms,” Garrett said, by way of agreement. “Unless they used the House, too.”

“Did Delilah come down here?” Corvo asked.

“No,” the Madam replied. “But there _are_ other places such as this. Rumours and whispers mentioned in the texts that are decipherable. As far as I can tell they had a more centralised area in the Old Quarter.”

_Where the Cradle is_ , Garrett reflected, unable to stop the involuntary shiver that passed through him.

“Maybe they left a map,” Thomas said.

The central tower was exactly as Garrett remembered it – albeit missing the book he’d come here for the last time. The shelves around were _full_ of books; he plucked one out and flipped open a page.

_-Certainly not, kind sir! I am here but to clean your chambers._

_Is that all you have come here for, little one? My chambers?-_

“This is going to take a while,” he said.

* * *

 

He didn’t know he’d fallen asleep until the hand on his shoulder startled him awake. He jerked, knocking his bandaged right hand on the desk and subsequently hissing in pain as it throbbed in protest.

“Sorry,” Corvo said, lifting his hand gingerly. “I should have just left you.”

“It’s fine,” Garrett said absently, trying to ignore his hand, eyes scanning the room around him – the Madam had sequestered herself on the only decent chair left in the room, and was idly flipping through pages of the books around her. Thomas was perched on one of the high bookcases; he leaned down every so often to retrieve a new one, tossing the old one onto the floor below. The (somewhat neat) pile reached about halfway up said bookcase.

Garrett was sat in front of the desk – and had apparently fallen asleep in an undignified manner, face pressed into the pages of the book he’d been looking over. He rubbed at his face, briefly. His left eye felt gritty and he was aware of the discomforting sensation of the right, false, eye just being _there_ more than anything else, but he resisted the temptation to remove it. Later; in a safer location.

“Did you find something?” he asked, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to alleviate the ache.

“No,” Corvo said, leaning against the desk. He looked as weary as Garrett felt – had taken his mask off a long while ago to better read the books they’d been poring over. “We’ve been here for what feels like hours. When- when do we decide that there’s nothing here?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Garrett admitted, blinking at the book he’d fallen asleep on. It had been a rather distracting tale about teams of warriors with colourful names who fought monsters; it that had cut off abruptly in the fifth chapter. He pushed the book aside, where it joined the other discarded ones on the floor next to him, kicking up dust that had him coughing and Corvo wrinkling his nose.

“This amount of dust can’t be healthy for anyone,” he commented.

“Probably not,” Garrett agreed, flipping open the cover of the newest book and peering at its contents.

“Corvo-“ he said slowly, blinking a few times. “I’m- I’m not still asleep, am I?”

At Corvo’s frown, Garrett gestured to the book in front of him.

_“This tale, recorded by Keeper Draco,”_ Corvo read aloud, “ _is that of the man known by many titles: The Whitehanded Thief; The One-Eyed Thief; The One True Keeper; The Sneak Thief-“_

Corvo broke off as he read the next line.

_“Garrett. Master Thief, Deceiver of the Trickster; Vanquisher of Karras; Saboteur of Gamall.”_

He glanced up from the page.

“You’ve _got_ to be joking,” he said eventually.

“The _Sneak Thief?”_ the Madam asked, rising from her chair and crossing the room. “His name was _Garrett?”_

Garrett himself was about to respond, but before he could – something _flickered_ in the periphery of his right eye. The mechanism _hummed,_ something only he could hear and feel, and then-

_“You know,”_ a voice inside his head said. _“I’m surprised they didn’t call me a taffer somewhere in those epithets.”_

“Garrett?” Corvo said, after a few long moments, wherein he’d sat staring at the page in front of him. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

_“Heard one, maybe,”_ the voice continued.

“I’m- I’m fine-“ Garrett said, as Thomas hopped down from his perch to join them.

_Who are you?_ he thought, determined not to start talking aloud to yet another voice in his head.

_“C’mon kid – surely you’ve guessed who I am by now.”_

“You were at Bafford Manor-“ he realised suddenly, breaking his silence almost immediately in his shock. “You-“

_You warned me about Delilah._

In the moments before he’d been captured, the Eye had spoken to him – using both Erin’s voice and _this_ new, other one. He’d thought the voices had gone with the removal of his true eye, but-

“Garrett?” Corvo broke in, concern lacing his words.

_“I’ve been here since tall, dark and whalesome put me here,”_ the voice said. _“Let me tell you – five years in_ your _head is almost as bad as being dead. But at least you’re getting somewhere interesting now. Namely: me.”_

Garrett leaned forward, burying his face in his good hand, ignoring the book for now.

“Corvo-“ he said. “You- you remember our discussion about- _cruel_ gifts given by the Outsider. Voices from our past and suchlike.”

Corvo didn’t reply for a moment, but then he said-

“I remember.”

The grave tone of voice suggested he knew exactly what Garrett was referring to. Garrett recalled Corvo had been given a heart that spoke with the voice of the dead Empress Jessamine – Emily’s mother.

“Well- _imagine-“_ he began, noticing the somewhat panicked lilt to his voice- “that you’ve been given the- the _mind_ or _soul_ of the person in this book. And it’s suddenly decided to start talking.”

“Can somebody tell me what’s going on?” Thomas asked, reaching past Garrett to pick up the book in question. “You’re hearing voices?”

_“He thinks you’re nuts.”_

“No- I- yes-“ Garrett floundered, before taking a deep breath in an attempt to centre himself.

“Maybe the Cradle _did_ addle his brains,” the Madam commented. Garrett noticed Corvo shoot her a disapproving look.

“You can hear this- _Sneak Thief?”_ Corvo asked, patiently – somehow reminding Garrett of the way he spoke to Emily. He wasn’t sure if that was reassuring or not. “The one who’s eye you’re wearing?”

Garrett nodded mutely.

“You- you’re telling me you’re suddenly host to the spirit of the Sneak Thief? Who just _happens_ to be named Garrett?” the Madam asked incredulously. 

_“I was here first, lady,”_ the voice answered.

“He’s just as unimpressed as we are,” Garrett said eventually, drily.

“Well,” Corvo said slowly. “I guess there’s a first time for everything. Why show himself now?”

“He says he’s been here since- the beginning,” Garrett said. “Why now?”

_“You mean other than the fact you’re all talking about me?”_ the voice asked. _“I had nothing to say before – what did I care about Dunwall? The other one took care of that far better. But she’s gone, now. She went with your real eye.”_

Garrett blinked a few times – some small part of him glad he only had one voice to contend with at a time.

“What’s he like?” Thomas asked – although he still sounded sceptical.

Garrett considered the question for a moment.

“Annoying?” he ventured. “Smug, definitely. He sounds a little like Corvo.”

“Should I be offended?” Corvo asked, raising an eyebrow.

_“No,”_ the voice – _the other Garrett –_ said.

“Can we please just get back to the matter in hand,” Garrett pleaded, attempting to ignore both the voice and the Madam’s expression – somewhere between highly angry and highly dubious.

“I’ve found her,” Thomas said, placing the book down on the desk. He pointed to a page.

The page was titled _The Sword,_ which wasn’t very informative.

“It says how the Sneak Thief – this, uh, Garrett – was contacted by a woman named Viktoria,” Thomas explained. “She represented a client who wanted him to steal a sword from a nobleman.”

“That- _doesn’t_ sound like the person we’re looking for,” Corvo said slowly.

_“She is,”_ the Sneak Thief said. _“If you turn on a few pages you’ll get to the part where the guy I stole the sword from turned out to be the same guy I stole the sword_ for- _and then_ he _hired me to steal the Eye – and_ then _turned into the Trickster and had Viktoria – who turned into a wood nymph, by the way – tear out my real eye.”_

“He did _what?”_ Garrett muttered, struggling to get his head around the chain of events.

_“It was a rough week.”_

“Your spirit have any input on this, Garrett?” the Madam asked.

“He says it’s the same person,” Garrett replied. “Among- _other_ things.”

“So then- why don’t we just skip all this formality and ask him where she is now?” the Madam asked. “That is- if you haven’t actually gone insane and this entire thing is a lie.”

“Does the next part talk about how the client for the job was the same as the mark?” Garrett asked Thomas. “And then this _client-_ was actually the Trickster?”

Thomas flipped a few pages, scanning quickly. He nodded.

“The Trickster wanted the Sneak Thief to steal something from a place known as the _Haunted Cathedral,”_ he outlined.

“In the Old Quarter,” the Madam said. “The entire area around it used to be sealed off. Talks of- _undead.”_

_“Whole lot more than that in there, let me tell you.”_

“Well, he eventually managed to take it – something called _the Eye –_ there’s a picture, here-“

He turned the book around, and the image there chilled Garrett to the bone.

_“Now you’re getting it, kid,”_ the other Garrett said.

“That’s the device Delilah used,” Garrett said, closing his eyes for a moment as those few, horrifying moments in the Cradle came back to him. “That’s what she put my- my _real_ eye into.”

He felt cold, suddenly, passed his hand over his face for a moment. The room was silent – and somehow that was _worse._ Not even the new voice in his head was talking to him.

“What did the Trickster do with it?” Corvo asked.

Thomas flipped through the pages of the book, reading quickly.

“I’m not sure I quite understand the full consequence,” he began, “but he wanted to use it to open a portal, of somekind.”

_“Between this realm and the Trickster’s realm. It would have been untold destruction,”_ the Sneak Thief said.

“People called _Hammers_ provided him with a replica of the device,” Thomas continued, “which he swapped out and foiled the ritual.”

He paused for a moment.

“Daud did something similar with Delilah,” he said. “She was performing a ritual inside the Void in order to fuse her spirit with Lady Emily’s. Daud switched the paintings and she ended up inside the Void instead.”

_“Similar – except I killed the Trickster.”_

“Sneak Thief says he killed the Trickster,” Garrett repeated. “But- it is similar.”

“It _doesn’t_ tell us what happened to this Viktoria,” the Madam cut in. _“Or_ how we deal with Delilah _now.”_

“She’s right,” Corvo said. “What _did_ happen to Viktoria?”

The voice in Garrett’s head was silent, strangely.

_Well?_ he prompted.

_“She died,”_ was the sudden reply – something bitter and sad in it. _“I told her to wait and that it was suicide to go after that bastard Karras- but she didn’t listen and it got her killed.”_

“What does the book say about someone named Karras?” Garrett asked, when the Sneak Thief didn’t say any more.

There was a few minutes silence while Thomas read. Garrett took the opportunity to stand, stretch out wearied limbs and attempt to figure out where exactly his life had gotten this weird.

_“About five years ago, probably,”_ the voice cut in.

“Can you just- _stop talking?”_ Garrett snapped, closing his eyes. “When I ask you important information you clam up but seconds later you’re perfectly fine with- with _needling_ me?”

_“And you wonder why I_ didn’t _speak to you for all these years.”_

* * *

 

The _Siren’s Rest_ was closer to the House of Blossoms than the _Crippled Burrick_ had been. The night outside was dark – but not exactly _still,_ as the raucous sounds from the bar rose up to meet the cold air around.

They’d left the House a little earlier – Garrett had given his word to the Madam that he would provide her with any new information they’d found – and he’d led them through the narrow streets of the City to the _Siren’s Rest._

Corvo found that Erin had apparently managed to get to Basso – the fence was waiting for them inside the bar. He’d secured a booth near the back of the room, and somehow held onto it despite the small crowd around him. The number of empty glasses next to him suggested he’d been there a while. When they entered – tired, covered in dust, and bearing the book between them, he’d raised an eyebrow.

“Managed to avoid the Madam, then?” he asked.

“Oh, no- she poisoned us,” Garrett said, gingerly sliding into the seat and burying his head in his arms.

“Poison?” Basso asked – sounding somehow unsurprised, but raising an eyebrow anyway.

“Curare,” Thomas clarified, taking the space next to Garrett, meaning Corvo had to sit next to Basso. The expression that flickered across the man’s face suggested he wasn’t overly pleased with the fact. Corvo was acutely aware that he was a great deal taller than the man – although he towered over most people in Dunwall anyway, so it was a sensation he’d long become used to.

“Well- anyway-“ Basso began, studiously ignoring Corvo. “Jacob told me you were coming, so I took the liberty of ordering you some food. Didn’t think the Madam’s hospitality would stretch to feeding you.”

“I’m not hungry,” Garrett said, somewhere from the surface of the table.

“You should eat,” Corvo told him. “You’re still recovering from- _before._ ”

Garrett raised his head enough to shoot him an unimpressed look.

“Injuries like yours don’t just heal on their own,” he pressed on. “A physician would tell you to rest. All _I’m_ asking is that you eat. Take it from somebody who knows – you’ll be glad when you do.”

“And what exactly is it that _you_ know?” Basso asked sourly.

“Basso-“ Garrett said, warningly.

“I spent six months in a prison,” Corvo said, cutting Garrett off. “In solitary confinement; tortured and beaten in an attempt to make me confess to a crime I didn’t commit.”

(In his periphery, he saw Thomas’ left hand tighten into a fist, but other than that he was still.)

“After I broke out,” he pressed on. “It was- hard. I was immediately put to work and food still wasn’t regular – you were there for that part, Garrett. I must have run on adrenalin and Void-given magic for two weeks straight. And I didn’t really _want_ to eat after – too many important things to do with Emily and the city. Anyway- about a week after you left, Garrett, I- _crashed_.”

“I remember the papers,” Thomas cut in quietly. “They ran it like a scandal - rumours that you were dying of plague, or _worse._ But I also remember when you came to _us._ You looked like a corpse then. It was only a matter of time before your body gave up.”

“My point _is,”_ Corvo said – “you _need_ to let your body recover. What you endured would have been enough to _kill_ some people.”

They were interrupted by the arrival of said food – a bowl of stew that was passed down the table to be set in front of Garrett. He glared at them all, but dutifully picked up the spoon and started to pick at it.

“You two were also poisoned today,” he grumbled.

“Uh- two more for these two,” Basso mumbled to the staff member. “And another beer for me.”

Corvo got the impression that Basso hadn’t intended to buy them _all_ food before.

“And _you_ can shut up, too,” Garrett hissed, suddenly, looking somewhere to his right.

“The other guy still bothering you?” Thomas asked.

“He’s incessant,” Garrett said, irritated.

“Should I even ask who you’re talking about now?” said a voice from their right.

Somewhat surprisingly, it was _Erin –_ shoving Thomas further into the booth so she could perch on the edge of the seat, opposite Corvo. She levelled him with a long look for a moment, before turning her gaze back to the rest of the group.

“Where have you been?” Basso asked.

“Followed that lead you pulled about Delilah,” Erin replied, immediately garnering everyone’s interest. “She’s definitely doing something in the South Quarter – although _what,_ I don’t know. She’s got both the Watch and the Witch-Guard with her, so I couldn’t get too close. Did _you_ find anything in the House?” She turned her attention to the rest of them.

Corvo indicated the book on the table in front of them.

“We found reference to Viktoria in here,” he said. “But, it got a little- _complicated,”_ he settled on.

“How so?” Basso asked, as Erin pulled the book over and opened the first page.

“Garrett,” she said after a moment, “what the _fuck_ is this?”

“Just get it over with,” he muttered, determinedly looking at the stew and nowhere else.

“The Sneak Thief’s name was _Garrett?”_ Erin asked incredulously. “Please tell me this is some sort of joke.”

“Nope,” Garrett replied, drawing out the word.

Corvo had a moment to consider that Garrett most definitely hadn’t told Erin or Basso about the Eye – and how the Outsider had given it _Erin’s_ voice to speak to him. It would take a lot of uncomfortable discussion to fully explain it and how it had changed – and Corvo could tell Garrett wasn’t relishing the opportunity.

(He’d never told anyone except Garrett about the Heart for the same reason. For its usefulness, it was just too painful – too cruel – to discuss.)

“Either way – the rest of the stories seem true,” he continued instead. “The Sneak Thief was associated with this Viktoria – the Woodsie Lady. But the book is _vague_ on her death. They went to a place known as Soulforge to confront a man named Karras, and only _he_ emerged again.”

“The old Soulforge Cathedral?” Erin asked. “In the old Eastport district?”

“You’ve heard of it?” Garrett asked.

Erin nodded. “It’s an old Builder place, I think. Fell into ruin years ago – nobody knows why. It’s a big place, but the name is written right above the front door. You can’t see it unless you’re in there. There _were_ stories about corpses encased in gold there, but I didn’t really find anything.”

“You went _inside?”_ Thomas asked.

Erin shrugged. “It was fine. Place was overgrown with vines and there were a _lot_ of rusting contraptions that I didn’t really get, but- not much else. I didn’t really go that far in – I was only a kid when I last went-“

“But you know a way in,” Corvo said slowly.

Erin turned her gaze to him, a decidedly unimpressed look crossing it. Before she could say anything, the staff member returned with more food, as well as a glass of unidentifiable liquid, which was placed in front of Garrett.

“The master over there wished me to give this to you,” said the staff member, sounding as if they would rather be anywhere else right now.

“Who?” Garrett asked, peering out of the booth to where the staff member was pointing.

The source of the drink was a rather portly man, dressed in a top hat and what looked to be a fake fur shawl. He was a man who carried a false air of decadence – a performer who plied his trade to nobles, then.

When he noticed them all looking, he smiled, tipped his hat, and started to weave his way through the crowd towards them.

“Shit,” Garrett muttered, eyeing the drink distastefully, before returning his head to his hands again.

“Should we be worried?” Corvo asked.

“Definitely not,” Erin replied, sounding highly amused.

“ _Master thief,”_ the man announced, placing both his hands on the table, ignoring everybody else aside from Garrett. Corvo noted the man’s sleeve was trailing in his bowl of stew (and Thomas had quickly rescued his own bowl in lieu of the unknown man plunging his hand directly into it).

“Go away, Vittori,” replied Garrett.

“Say that a bit louder, why don’t you,” Basso cut in, snagging Garrett’s untouched glass for himself. “I’m sure the group of Watch officers over there would be glad to know you’re consorting with a thief.”

“Oh- uh- right,” Vittori said, immediately drawing back and sharing a furtive look with them all.

“Well,” he said, conspiratorially, lowering his voice and leaning forward again, directly in front of Corvo. “I heard about your run-in with the general and his new _beau._ ”

_“Beau?”_ Corvo heard Thomas mutter incredulously.

“What about it?” Garrett said, lifting his head to directly face Vittori. It was then that Vittori appeared to notice that Garrett’s right eye wasn’t real anymore – and Corvo saw his gaze cross to Garrett’s bandaged hand, too.

“Well,” he pressed on, gamely, “I’ve just held a private show at a house in Audale. And- well- I lost one of my prized possessions inside. I’m certain the cur took it! But- _anyway-_ I thought that maybe it could provide an opportunity for a man as such as yourself. An arrangement, if you will, that would benefit the both of us.”

“I’m failing to see any benefit right now,” Garrett replied.

“Perhaps if you’d let me finish-“ Vittori tried, but at the sight of Garrett’s eyes narrowing, he tried again. “The man has rather- _expensive_ taste. I’m sure he wouldn’t notice if a few choice valuables went missing along with my artefact – the man _certainly_ has enough cups that he wouldn’t miss a few of them –“

“Go away, Vittori,” Garrett repeated, sighing. “I’m not interested in a job right now.”

“But if you would just-“

“He said _no,_ Master Vittori,” Corvo interrupted, rising from his seat, using the leverage to force the man to take a step away from the table. He kept his voice quiet, but he could tell he was having the desired effect when Vittori swallowed hard, eyes darting to the hand that now rested on the hilt of Corvo’s sword.

“Now then, Master – I have no business with _you-_ I am trying to facilitate an arrangement between business partners-“ Vittori tried, falling silent as Corvo drew himself to his full height.

“You misunderstand,” Corvo said simply. “This is not an invitation for you to continue talking, or attempt to bargain. This is a request that you leave before I make you.”

“You know,” Garrett said, as they watched a thoroughly-cowed Vittori walk quickly away while simultaneously looking as though he’d come up with the idea to leave himself, “I’m starting to see how you manage to survive in court all day.”

“Parliament is worse,” Corvo said, by way of response, taking his seat again. He pushed the bowl of stew away.

“Is it true,” Thomas began, stiffening slightly as Corvo’s gaze found him, “that you once threw Custis Pendleton out of a state dinner because he made an errant remark about the Empress?”

_“Custis?”_ Garrett repeated, a dark look crossing his face. “You mean-“

“The same,” Corvo told him, recalling the afternoon in the Hound Pits, and the revelation of what Slackjaw and the Bottle Street Gang had done to the twins. “But in answer to your question,” he said to Thomas, “I did. The man was rude and drunk. I ensured that he would not make the same mistake again.”

Thomas nodded. “I suppose it’s easy to see why he backed Burrows, then,” he said, quietly.

“Excuse me?” Corvo said, tone now dangerously quiet.

Thomas looked up, held his gaze. Corvo noted that his left hand was clenched into a fist, but other than that he was completely still.

“I am merely saying that it was clear the Pendleton twins were never going to be in your corner,” he said, calmly. “A slight such as that does not go unforgotten among the nobility. Add it to a string of other perceived slights and- well, there was one simple conclusion for them.”

“What exactly are you trying to imply?” Corvo asked him. “There was nothing _simple_ about what _you_ helped _-“_

_“Enough,”_ Garrett broke in.

Corvo acquiesced, drawing his mouth into a hard line. He didn’t meet Garrett’s gaze, focused on his own clenched hands, even as Basso and Erin shared a look.

“I-“ Thomas began, but stopped at a look from Garrett.

“I will be nearby,” he amended. “Excuse me.”

He disappeared before any of them could speak – and Corvo couldn’t help but feel the tension leech from his shoulders when he saw the vacant seat.

“That’s still fucking weird,” Basso muttered.

“Corvo,” Garrett began-

“I don’t need a lecture from you right now,” he snapped in response.

“I’m going to see about getting us a room,” Basso announced after a few moments’ silence, gingerly prodding Corvo to stand and allow him out of the booth. “I assume you’re not gonna want to hit this Soulforge place until tomorrow now.”

He disappeared into the crowd of people – it had thinned out a little since they’d first entered, but it seemed as though the _Siren’s Rest_ would still be trading for a good while yet.

“Erin,” Garrett tried instead, pushing his bowl away, “can you take us to Soulforge tomorrow?”

“What’s in it for me?” she asked him.

Garrett lifted a shoulder in response. “Not riches or loot. Answers, maybe – an edge over Delilah, if we’re lucky. Maybe nothing. Point is – you know how to get in.”

“Fine,” she said, after a moment, before rising. “I need to pick up some things – I’ll also see if I can figure out what the Witch-Guard is doing tonight. I’ll be back later.”

If Garrett was surprised by her willingness to cooperate, he didn’t say. He just nodded, returning his gaze back to the other patrons of the bar.

“Erin,“ Corvo said suddenly, rising and moving a few paces alongside her as she started to leave. She stopped, regarding him with a look. “I- could you pick up some things for Garrett?” he asked. “I’d get them myself, but, well-“

He fished in his pocket for some coin, producing gold from the Dunwall mint. Entirely useless in the City.

“I don’t think they’ll take this anywhere.”

“No,” she said wryly, deftly relieving him of the money, “but _I_ will. What do you need?”

“Bandages,” he said simply, with a quick nod in Garrett’s direction.

She nodded, turned towards the door again.

“You owe me, though,” she said, before disappearing into the crowd.

* * *

 

By the time Erin returned, Basso had found them a room on the upper floor of the building. It was more spacious than Corvo had expected; his impression of the City so far had been that any and every space was used for _something,_ but there were two beds and several chairs inside this room and still enough space to move about.

Garrett was seated at the table; a lantern by his side as he methodically cleaned his false eye. Corvo could tell that the empty socket still pained him – the skin still looked slightly swollen – but he’d removed the eye without complaint and set about maintaining the mechanism.

“The other guy’s giving me instructions,” Garrett said, noticing Corvo’s look. “Turns out this _was_ his eye. It was even made by this Karras we’re looking for.”

“Really?” Corvo asked, taking the seat opposite.

Garrett nodded, turning his attention back to the eye.

“According to him, Karras – _Father Karras –_ belonged to a group called the _Mechanists._ A splinter faction of the Builders-“

He broke off for a moment.

“Hammerites,” he amended. “They were called the Hammerites. The Hammerites gave the Sneak Thief this eye in thanks for what he did with the Trickster and- and the _other_ eye.”

“That’s going to get confusing,” Corvo commented, drily. Garrett huffed out an amused breath in response.

“You don’t need to tell me that,” he said. “At least _you_ don’t have someone in your head correcting you on all bits of history time got wrong. Either way – Karras apparently found that the Hammerites weren’t to his liking, and then created these _Mechanists.”_

“He’ll tell you all this, but he still won’t tell you how Viktoria died?” Corvo asked.

Garrett shook his head.

“All he says is that he never went back to Soulforge. Personally I think there’s more between him and this Viktoria than he’s letting on.”

He fell silent, but Corvo saw his gaze dart to the right, as if he were listening to something that Corvo couldn’t hear.

“Now he’s berating me for ‘ _sticking my nose into things I don’t understand’,”_ he said, “so I’m going to assume I was on the right track.”

“Didn’t Viktoria take his original eye, though?” Corvo asked.

“Well, they _do_ say love is blind,” Garrett quipped, a slow smile forming on his face. “Maybe half-blind, in this guy’s case.”

Whatever the Sneak Thief’s response was, Garrett snorted.

“Don’t make threats you can’t follow through on, old man,” he said.

The sound of the door opening had Corvo reflexively reaching for his sword, but at the sight of Erin, he halted. She tossed him a bag as she closed the door.

“Where’s Basso?” she asked.

“Drowning himself at the bar,” Garrett replied. “I think he’s still wrapping his head around Corvo and Thomas.”

“And Thomas is-?” she left the question unfinished – the meaningful look she directed at Corvo wasn’t unnoticed.

“Not back yet,” Corvo replied, before lifting up the bag. “Thank you.”

“Just remember you owe me,” she replied.

“Do I even want to know?” Garrett asked, placing the mechanical eye down on the table.

“It’s for you,” Corvo told him, revealing the contents. “Your bandages need changing.”

Garrett frowned. “You didn’t need to-“ he began. “I’m sure I can-“

“No, please,” Corvo interrupted, “tell me how you’re going to treat yourself with only one working hand.”

Garrett didn’t reply for a moment, before he sighed, moving to remove his cloak and leathers.

“Just get it over with,” he muttered, as Corvo crossed the room to fill a bowl with water.

In all honesty, Corvo didn’t relish the task he’d given himself, but he’d seen enough wounds fester in his lifetime to simply push his discomfort aside and get on with it.

Across the room, Erin was leafing through the book they’d recovered from the library, but Corvo could tell by her stillness that she was paying attention to them, too.

“Sokolov was right,” he said, gently applying the water to some of the welts on Garrett’s back, “these are healing faster than I’d normally expect.”

“Guess the bone charm is doing it’s work,” Garrett replied – producing said charm from somewhere Corvo couldn’t see. “What did Thomas call it? _Tough Skin?”_

He winced, suddenly, as Corvo’s cloth came into contact with a more tender patch.

“You know,” Corvo said quietly, more of a distraction than anything else, “the one he gave me is probably the only reason I was able to do what I did in the House.”

He’d actually forgotten that he’d pocketed the charm – _Void Surge –_ given to him in the Clock Tower. It was only when the thing had started burning through the lining of his coat that he’d remembered it. He took a moment to retrieve it now; placed it on the table next to Garrett’s arm.

“I’ve been poisoned seven – well eight, I suppose – times now. Comes with the job,” he said. “The first time was an assassin who thought they could get rid of Jessamine by simply poisoning her food. When it got _me,_ instead-“

He broke off, recalled the debilitating feeling; the shivering, the sweating, and the sensation of Jessamine’s hand stroking his hair the entirety of the ordeal.

“ _After_ I was Marked,” he continued, instead, “it became easier to- to _endure._ Sokolov could tell you stories about how I’ve pulled through poisonings that should have killed me – people wanting to remove me from Emily’s side to make getting to _her_ easier.”

Somehow, those poisonings were worse – while he could survive them better, he’d still had to withstand hours, if not _days_ of pain or paralysis, knowing that any sign of him succumbing would be a death knell to Emily.

“As much as the Mark benefits – _this_ charm Thomas gave me helped more. I feel practically _feel_ the poison purging itself from my body. I won’t deny that it helped us all get out of a situation that could have been a lot worse. But-“

He sighed, placed the cloth he’d been using down, reaching for the bandages.

“But I can’t bring myself to _thank_ him for it. For what he’s doing for us.”

Corvo let his words hang in the air, twisting the material of the bandage between his fingers. When Garrett didn’t reply, he sighed, setting his mind to the somewhat-easier task of rewrapping the marks on Garrett’s back.

“Can- do you want to do your hand yourself?” he asked. “Or-“

“You may as well,” Garrett said, turning in his chair and offering said hand to him. Corvo couldn’t bring himself to meet Garrett’s eye, so he kept his gaze down, focused on his task.

The skin on Garrett’s hand was still badly blistered; Corvo found himself trying his best not to create any more pain as he cleaned what skin he could. But he could tell it looked a little better than when he’d last seen it – if only by a minute amount.

“I don’t ever expect I’ll fully understand it,” Garrett said suddenly; Corvo’s gaze darted up to find the other man staring at some part of the wall behind him, teeth gritted as Corvo tended to his hand. “How you feel, or- or what it’s like, or even how it _felt_ on that day. Having Thomas here is tantamount to rubbing the whole thing in your face every moment you see him. _Practically,_ I can tell you that he’s useful – a means to an end. But the real world isn’t as _practical_ as we’d like it to be.”

His gaze moved; Corvo wondered if he was looking at Erin, seated behind him, but then his eye darted to meet Corvo’s own.

“You don’t have to thank him for what he’s doing now,” he said. “And you certainly don’t have to forgive him for his part in the whole thing – whatever that even was.”

“But-?” Corvo could sense a follow-up.

“ _But,_ I would remember what Emily told you,” Garrett said simply. “So far, he has acted honourably, and what he is doing is costing both him and his people a great deal. He could have very easily left me to die in the Flooded District, or not told us anything about Delilah and what she did before. But he didn’t – whether out of some guilt over his actions before, or just plain selflessness, or some other reason.”

He shrugged his shoulder, pulled his hand back to examine the fresh bandage around it.

“Not all hurts leave a mark,” he said. “And it’s easy for me to tell you to accept that he’s here. But I think that, eventually, you’re both going to have to talk about it.”

* * *

 

The night was cold, clear. A full moon cast much of the city into sharp relief, leaving snow-topped roofs gleaming and glistening in the light. In the distance, he could see the Clock Tower, too – face shining brightly against the dark of the sky. It didn’t exactly look _small,_ but there was something removed and- _distant_ about it.

Stood on the upper level of the _Siren’s Rest,_ Corvo peered up at the sky, at the stars in their multitudes, attempting to find solace – or answers – in their cold, far-off light.

“See any you recognise?” a voice behind him asked.

He turned, briefly, acknowledging Erin as she came up to the railing next to him. He’d left her inside the room after somehow convincing Garrett to take one of the beds and get some rest.

(“Might shut the other guy up for a while, I guess,” he’d said in the end.)

In response to her question, Corvo cast his gaze skyward again, trying to pick out constellations.

“One,” he admitted, with a huff of laughter. “The Whale.”

Erin smirked, following his gaze. “We call it the Leviathan,” she told him. “Says a lot about your Outsider god, I suppose. Wanting to impose himself on the heavens.”

Corvo didn’t reply, leaned against the railing again, gazing out at the City instead.

In the tavern below, someone had started a song; a low, mournful tune that spoke of far-off places and long-held romances. Despite its melancholy, Corvo found himself listening to a unfamiliar tune, wondering if somewhere in Dunwall someone was playing something similar.

Footsteps on the nearby stairs drew their attention for a moment, but it was only Basso, finally leaving the bar.

“Where’s Garrett?” he asked, seeing the pair of them.

“Asleep,” Erin nodded her head to the door behind her. “I thought I’d take the opportunity to talk to Corvo.”

And _that_ he’d been expecting – from the looks she’d given him since they’d first arrived, to the way she’d held herself so still during his earlier conversation with Garrett.

“There are things you’re not saying,” she said, frankly. “And I don’t mean whatever the hell’s going on between you and Thomas. There are things you and Garrett aren’t saying.”

Corvo sighed, nodded, tracing the familiar shape of the Whale constellation again. It reminded him a little of his visit to Draper’s Ward, and the meeting with Thomas on the deck of the _Undine,_ when he’d had no idea what he was going to face.

“The Outsider,” he began, “is not a cruel god – but neither is he kind. Perhaps he’s spent far too long in the Void to understand the full implications of the things he does. But- when he Marked me, he also gave me- _something else.”_ He said the last part quieter, unburying an old hurt he hadn’t wanted to, but needed to.

He turned his hand over, revealing the black tattoo to the moonlight, tracing it briefly for a moment.

“He called it ‘ _the Heart of a living thing’,”_ he said. “It’s not- it’s not _physical,_ I can’t show it to you in a way I can show you the Mark, but it’s always _there._ And it _talks_ to me, sometimes.”

It was silent now, and he was somehow glad for it.

“The Outsider, in his- in his _kindness,_ or _cruelty,_ gave it a voice that only serves to remind me of a time I would rather not remember.”

“Does it have something to do with what you were talking about in the bar?” Erin asked. “I heard you – six months in prison for a crime you didn’t commit. You’re someone who interacts with nobility on a regular basis, which means it had to be a _serious_ crime to keep you inside.”

Corvo was momentarily surprised by her astuteness, but he nodded.

“What was the crime?” Basso asked – and even he was unable to hide the intrigue in his voice.

“Murder,” said a voice from above them; Thomas hopped down from his perch on the roof to stand next to them. He didn’t raise his head to meet Corvo’s gaze.

“High treason,” Corvo added. “ _Regicide.”_

He noticed the shiver that seemed to pass over Thomas.

“You should tell them,” the assassin said.

“They thought you killed a king?” Erin asked, when nobody else spoke.

“An Empress,” Thomas said.

“The person you’re supposed to guard?” Erin asked, apparently recalling their earlier conversation in the Clock Tower.

Corvo nodded, hand slowly curling itself into a fist as old hurts became raw again.

“Jessamine Kaldwin,” he said slowly. “She was the- I was her Lord Protector. And I had to _watch-“_

He cut himself off with a sharp breath, gripping onto the railing.

“He wasn’t supposed to be there,” Thomas said quietly, drawing the attention of Erin and Basso. “We’d been told that the Royal Protector was away on business, and wasn’t supposed to return for another two days. When we saw him there, my master – _we –_ decided that we could take advantage of the situation. Assassinate an Empress and let her Lord Protector take the fall.”

“Wait- _you_ killed her?” Basso asked.

“Not- it wasn’t my blade,” Thomas replied, somewhat defensively. “But it was my organisation. My old master.”

“Guess that explains why you two aren’t the best of friends,” Erin said. “So- this thing the Outsider gave you. This- _Heart-“_

“It speaks to me using the voice of Jessamine Kaldwin,” Corvo finished. “And there is no greater kindness – no greater _cruelty –_ than that. The Outsider takes these _things_ from your past and just- _moulds_ them to suit himself.”

“So, you spent six months in prison for this murder- how’d you get out?” Basso asked. “Did this Outsider break you out?”

Corvo shook his head.

“A conspiracy formed – called themselves the _Loyalists.”_ The name sounded bitter and hollow on his tongue now, as he recalled them all gathered in the bar of the Hound Pits. “They got me out because I could do what they could not – namely, kill for them, if the need arose. You see – while Jessamine was gone, her daughter Emily was still being held by those who had- had _paid_ to see Jessamine die.”

“So you took the fight to them,” Erin surmised. Corvo nodded in reply.

“I met Garrett in that time. The Outsider had pulled him across the Void to search for a fragment of the Primal stone. But the Outsider gave _him_ a gift, too.”

He briefly wondered whether he should be telling them this, but decided that it was probably for the best if they – if _Erin –_ knew.

“The Outsider called it _the Eye._ A- metaphysical version of the one he has now, I suppose. Much like the Heart, it gave- _insight._ ”

“I assume it doesn’t use the voice of a dead Empress, though,” Erin said.

“No,” Corvo shook his head, turned to face her directly. “It used _yours.”_

He saw a range of emotions cross Erin’s face – hurt and confusion among them.

“Did it help him?” she asked eventually.

“It helped him make sense of the world he’d been introduced to,” Corvo replied. “It probably helped him as much as _me_ having Jessamine’s voice helped.”

“That’s what you were talking about in the library,” Thomas said. “His has- _changed,_ now.”

Corvo nodded.

“Changed _how?”_ Basso asked.

“It’s the Sneak Thief – the man who originally owned the eye Garrett’s wearing.”

“Garrett says he’s more annoying than _useful,_ however,” Thomas said.

Corvo could tell Basso didn’t believe them by the look of incredulity that crossed his face.

“My life has gotten real fuckin’ _weird_ since you two showed up,” he said, eventually.

Corvo nodded sympathetically.

“Corvo,” Thomas said suddenly. “I- I should apologise, for what I said before. It was- unthinking and cruel,” he settled on.

“It was also true,” Corvo said quietly, even though admitting it pained him. “As much as I’d like to admit, I wasn’t blind to some of the nobility’s distaste of me. My actions probably added _some_ fuel to their fire.”

It wasn’t quite acceptance, but there was some _understanding,_ there. He supposed it would have to be enough for now.

He looked back out over the City, at the snow and the cobbled streets.

“So how does Delilah fit into all this?” Erin asked suddenly. “What does she want _here?”_

_“_ That is what we hope to find out,” Corvo replied.

* * *

 

“ _This_ is the Soulforge? It looks more like a factory than a cathedral.”

The street around them was empty, barring a stray cat that hissed and darted in between the rusted ironwork of the railings that once surrounded the place. It was early – only just past dawn but light enough for them to see they were completely alone.

_“That, kid, is a very accurate summary of the entire Mechanist organisation,”_ the Sneak Thief said.

Garrett frowned, eyeing the crumbling façade that looked as though it had once been a stronghold of sorts, but now was simply a victim of time and decay. In his previous visits to Eastport, he’d noticed the structure, but never really paid too much attention – the entire district was mostly factory complexes and while the building had some impressive windows he’d never considered it anything _other_ than an elaborate warehouse that had long fallen into disrepair.

“Even the High Overseer’s office is more… decorated,” Corvo said, by way of agreement, as they wormed their way through a gap in the railings and into the grounds proper.

“There was still barely anything worth taking inside there, though,” Garrett said.

“Well, the same can be said for here,” Erin said, stepping past them to lead them towards the side of the structure. “The front door’s sealed tight,” she said, by way of explanation, “but the walls are less secure. There’s a hole in the side over here.”

Before they reached the hole, marks on the wall drew Garrett’s attention. He crouched, brushing away snow, revealing a very old set of codes.

“These are different from the last ones,” Corvo said.

“We have around twenty or so symbols,” Garrett replied. “ _These_ are a little of a contradiction, though.”

“How so?”

“This first one is the symbol for ‘ _cleaned out’,”_ Garrett said. “Which makes enough sense – even Erin said there was nothing here. It’s the next two that are a contradiction. _‘Holy place’_ and _‘witchcraft’._ You never normally see the same two together.”

“Some people think that the first one is a hammer – to symbolise the Builders,” Erin interjected.

“Hammerites,” Garrett found himself correcting, absently. “But even so – witchcraft and holy sites are barely ever contained together. It would be like putting a shrine to the Outsider at the bottom of an Overseer outpost.”

“That’s more common than you’d think,” Thomas broke in. Garrett decided to ignore him for now.

“These other two are more general – ‘ _locked doors’_ and ‘ _death likely’._ To be expected with an old place like this.”

He stepped back a moment, trying to see if there were any more symbols carved; he picked out one above the hole that led to the interior.

_Good entrance._ Fitting, he supposed, considering it was the _only_ one.

The interior of the cathedral was slightly warmer than outside – the roof was mostly intact, and it had shielded the building from the worst of the snow and wind.

Casting his gaze around, Garrett was struck with how _green_ the interior of the building was. Twisting vines and plants covered the floor and walls – almost unnaturally healthy looking, especially for the middle of winter. The air was quiet, still; it reminded Garrett of the _Void_ somehow, a world waiting to take a breath.

“The book said that Karras wanted to destroy all organic life,” Corvo said. “Somehow his creations malfunctioned and they were all sealed in here, instead. The only organic thing that died in the end was him.”

“If that’s true – where did all these plants come from?” Thomas asked.

“Afterwards, maybe?” Erin theorised. “They could have just grown back.”

“Either way, we’re probably going to have to go further in,” Garrett said. “Maybe we should look to see if Karras left anything behind. Or Viktoria.”

_“Just be glad you don’t have to listen to Karras on loudspeaker,”_ the other Garrett said as they crossed the room. “ _Bastard could preach the hind leg off a burrick. ‘What hast thou built, Garrett?’”_

“Don’t suppose you’d like to tell us where to go?” Garrett muttered.

_“I could walk you through the entirety of what I did here, if you really wanted,”_ was the reply, “ _but where’s the fun in that?”_

At Garrett’s frown, the voice laughed.

_“Fine. Look for the places where the vines don’t go._ That’s _where you’ll probably find whatever’s left of Karras.”_

“Did he have a base in here?” he asked aloud, not expecting a response but receiving one anyway.

_“He had a cosy little pad in the centre of the cathedral. Head up and find the most lavish room in this place.”_

“The centre,” he repeated to the others, ignoring Erin’s raised eyebrow.

There was something in the other Garrett’s tone, he noticed, as if his amusement were simply an attempt to cover up something else. An unease, or a sadness, maybe. _Whatever_ it was, Garrett doubted he’d get a straight answer if the asked about it.

They didn’t speak as he led the way, carefully treading around growing plant matter, further away from the brightly lit main entrance. It was almost like entering a forest – a sensation Garrett wasn’t entirely familiar with – but forests didn’t have gnarled, rusted spokes of metal instead of trees.

“There’s dust everywhere in here,” Erin said suddenly, her voice loud and discordant in the quiet of the ruins. “It’s- _weird.”_

Garrett paused, looked down to see his boots were now covered in a fine layer of rust-red dust. He ran a finger through it, examining it for a moment, but he couldn’t see anything noteworthy about it.

But _still-_

“All organic life destroyed,” he murmured, and flinched when _something_ further inside the cathedral groaned.

They all froze, listening to the sounds of movement, trying to pinpoint a source but failing.

“Probably just the building settling,” Corvo said.

“Did you-“ Thomas began, before cutting himself off. “Never mind.”

“What is it?” Erin asked him.

“I-nothing,” Thomas said. “It’s just that this tree looks- _odd.”_

The tree in question was short, stunted, completely covered in vines. There was something about it – its shape unnatural and jarring-

“It’s not a tree,” Garrett realised, pulling some of the vines away to reveal a rusting hulk of metal. Aided by Corvo, he cleared away some more of the plant matter, until they were all gazing upon a shrunken, humanoid figure that was made completely of metal.

 “It’s an- automaton?” Corvo asked.

Despite its age, Garrett could tell that it was built for combat – the rusting remains of an arm cannon still remained attached at one side. But it was cold; dead, a relic of an age that nobody outside the walls of the ruins even knew about.

“One eye,” he noted, fingers brushing the blue lens for a moment.

“Why don’t you ask your friend if that’s relevant?” Erin asked.

“My what?” Garrett asked reflexively, frowning as he met her gaze.

“You know you’ve been talking to yourself _way_ more than usual, right? I knew _something_ was going on. But Corvo told us about your- _companion,”_ she said. “Your _gift_ from the Outsider.”

“I see,” Garrett said tightly, now turning his gaze to Corvo. “That wasn’t for you to tell.”

“Maybe not,” Corvo agreed, “but I know _you,_ and you wouldn’t have told her about any of it unless you’d been forced to.”

Garrett knew he was right, but he couldn’t help feel somehow _slighted_ by it. Did Corvo think he was incapable of managing his own problems? And- just how much had Corvo revealed? Something about the expression on Erin’s face suggested that it was a great deal more than Garrett would have wanted to.

“Is now really the time to have this discussion?” Thomas cut in, as another distant part of the building groaned, disturbing some of the dust beneath their feet. Garrett opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off.

_“Aw, come on kid – don’t get all sour on me again. I like her.”_

_You do?_ He was momentarily distracted with the other Garrett’s honesty.

_“Yeah – she’s a hell of a lot more fun than you. Do you not remember when she used to pile up all those unconscious guards in compromising positions?”_

Garrett _did_ manage a smile at that, but he quickly covered it when he saw the others looking at him.

“If you look – he sort of- looks the other way,” Corvo said to the other two. “I think that’s when the other guy is talking.”

“So – what can he tell us about these things?” Erin asked, patting the bot – and then jerking backwards as the head came clean off with a shriek of grating metal. It hit the floor with a resounding _crash,_ sending more dust spilling into the air, and even some of the _vines_ seemed to shiver as the noise reverberated off the walls around them.

The silence that followed after was like the pause between rolls of thunder – the expectation of something more to come but not knowing _when_ it would happen. Except, nothing did, and after a few moments Garrett felt his racing heart begin to slow.

The other Garrett was laughing again.

_“Wish I’d been able to do that with these things,”_ he said. _“They were a pain in my ass, that’s for sure, but at least you could hear them coming.”_

“And the eyes?” Garrett prompted, closing his own for a moment in another effort to calm himself.

_“As fun as it would be to point out a neat philosophical connection between them and us – the answer is coincidence. The lenses helped them aim – and let me tell you, they could aim pretty well.”_

“Thomas,” Garrett said after another moment, “if you see any other- _odd trees-“_ he settled on “-don’t point them out.”

They carried on, through a corridor that was thick with vegetation – it was almost impossible to think it was midwinter outside – which lead to a room that was full of old, rusted factory parts. The vines were twisted around them, almost as if they were trying to _conquer_ the steel and fill up every available space. High above them, Garrett picked out some cracks in the ceiling, but the vines didn’t seem to stretch very far above the roof.

“So-“ Thomas began, quietly, almost reverently as they picked their way past a pit that seemed to be only filled with soil and broken metal, now. “What are we looking for in the centre of this place?”

“Karras-“ Garrett broke off as something else in the building rattled “-had a lodging of some sort in the centre. We might be able to find something in there.”

“Let’s move quickly,” Corvo said, equally quiet. “I don’t like this place.”

Garrett was glad he wasn’t alone in his feeling of disquiet. He’d been unsure whether it had been due to his lingering paranoia.

It was the quiet, he realised, as they made their way past a broken elevator – a platform rested haphazardly on a bed of vines, and somewhere inside it Garrett saw the gleam of metal against the unnatural half-light of the room around them. But the quiet of the Soulforge was what unnerved him. Aside from the distant groans and rattles and the _whispers_ of the vines as they shifted, there was no other sound around them.

The factory room lead into another, large, sloping antechamber. In here, Garrett could make out what looked to be stained glass on the far side of the room, but it too was covered with plant growth.

_The front door,_ he realised – the way in was blocked by a large clump of vines. They were actually wound around the handles, as if they were intentionally put there to ensure the doors remained closed. He could just about make out the word _SOULFORGE_ stamped above the door.

“Look,” Erin said, pointing. “There’s a banner against the wall.”

The banner looked as though it was once made of fine material – but now it was rotten and threadbare, only faint traces of red and black pigment visible against the green and brown of the vines that tangled through them.

A gear, Garrett reckoned, trying to decipher the symbol. He gently reached out, traced it with a finger, but it only came away covered in more of the rust-red dust that seemed to fill _everywhere._

And yet, in the centre of the room was a clear space – grass grew, unhindered by the dust. There was no tangled growth of vines. It was almost like somebody had cleared the area to allow _something_ enough light and space to grow.

In the centre of the grass was a ring of yellow flowers – surrounding a single black rose.

“This- isn’t what I expected,” Garrett said eventually.

“They must have some sort of significance,” Thomas said, crouching and gently examining one of the yellow flowers.

“Common bird’s-foot,” Erin said; Garrett raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“What?” she said, defensively. “I know flowers. I can tell you that _these_ aren’t exactly common within city limits. According to old housewives in the South Quarter, you only plant these if you’re planning _revenge.”_

“What about the rose?” Corvo asked.

“Roses can mean all sorts of things,” Erin shrugged. “A black one is usually symbolic of death.”

“Death and revenge?” Garrett said. “That’s- specific.”

_“Probably because this is where Viktoria died,”_ said the Sneak Thief, suddenly. Garrett flinched at the sound, the harsh finality to the other Garrett’s tone, and took a step back.

“What is it?” Corvo, of course, noticed.

“He said this is where Viktoria died.”

A heavy silence followed his words. Thomas gently moved his hand away from the flower and took a step back.

“What happened?” Garrett asked aloud, eyeing the rose and its surrounding bed. There was no sign of a body – but there wouldn’t be, not after hundreds of years. Yet, the _care_ taken for this one specific spot meant that _something_ had to be going on here.

_“Your book makes it all sound so_ neat,” the other Garrett replied. _“That we both entered the cathedral together and she just got caught in the crossfire. But it wasn’t. Viktoria came up with the idea to storm Soulforge. I shot her down – told her it was all based on ifs and buts. And I told her that I work_ alone. _She ignored me. Started her assault on Soulforge, and I only found out because Artemus broke orders to tell me. And I got here too late.”_

“She was already dead?”

_“No – worse. She- do you know how Karras wanted to destroy the City?”_

“He wanted to destroy all organic life,” Garrett replied. “Something to do with his servants.”

_“Karras thought organic life was inherently flawed – and certainly not worth the Master Builder’s time or attention. What he wanted was to wipe it out completely. The dust you’re standing in? It’s all that remains of every piece of organic matter that existed inside this church before Karras activated his mechanism. And Viktoria- well. She knew that there wasn’t enough in here to sustain a reaction to fully neutralise Karras and his servants. So she did the only thing she could – she returned herself to the earth.”_

Garrett wasn’t sure he understood – but then for a brief moment, the vision in his right eye flickered, and he was suddenly looking at something else.

It was the same room, but darker; torches burned on the walls and Garrett could see the banners in the distance; dark red and black, as if they had only just been made. But in the _centre_ of the room was a woman with red eyes, entwined with vines. They _burst_ out from her, filling every inch of the entranceway, racing down side corridors and destroying several robots that had been converging on her-

And then she was gone, the vision, too.

“She sacrificed herself,” he realised, looking back at the black rose. “She filled the cathedral with plants to ensure the reaction would work. She- she tore herself _apart_ to make sure it was enough.”

“Wow,” Erin said, after a moment. “That’s- _conviction._ It’s certainly a lot of faith in _him.”_

“Sometimes faith is all you need,” Corvo said quietly.

“So all of this is- a shrine?” Thomas asked, gesturing to the plants around them.

“It’s a tomb,” Garrett said. “Made in the only way the Woodsie Folk know how.”

They left the flowers behind, something subdued in their movements as they did so.

“This doesn’t help us,” Erin said suddenly, as they passed through another corridor. “You were told to find Viktoria – well, you did. She’s back there, apparently.”

“Somebody’s been taking care of her- grave,” Garrett settled on. “We find them.”

“And if we don’t?”

“Then- I don’t know,” Garrett confessed. “We go back to the book and see if we can figure out what Delilah wants the Eye for. But _this_ has to lead to something. The Outsider wouldn’t have given us the name if it wasn’t significant.”

“Are you sure about that?” Erin asked. “From what I’ve heard he seems pretty content to fuck you all around. I mean – there were the so-called _gifts_ he gave you two, and since you’ve got here Thomas’ hands have _barely_ stopped shaking, so-“

“What?” Corvo asked suddenly, halting and turning a sharp eye onto Thomas.

Thomas slowed, too, raising his hands defensively. They were still, now.

“Something you want to share?” Corvo asked, voice mild but barely containing the threat it held.

“No,” Thomas replied – too quickly, too defensively.

“Can we-“ Garrett began-

But _something_ in the corner of his eye moved.

His hand moved to the dagger he now carried – he fleetingly wondered if he’d ever be able to return it to its owner – and he turned, facing the corridor behind them fully.

“Did you see that?” he asked, quietly, but was ignored.

“I would advise you not to lie to me,” Corvo said, voice now flat and commanding – Garrett once again got an impression of the man who guarded an Empress for a living.

“It is _not_ your concern,” Thomas snapped back.

_“Shut up!”_ Garrett hissed, turning back to face them briefly.

Before he could say anymore, a sound reached them – coming from the main entrance they’d just left. A _rattle,_ the sound of something moving that shouldn’t be, and the rending of metal.

“That’s not the building settling,” he said, decisively, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck start to rise. “We need to move on from here.”

The others followed him silently, and he was glad for it – he could better listen for the sounds of whatever was following them. It was rhythmic, the gait of something _walking,_ but somehow disjointed and wrong – a creature that knew the mechanics of walking but had never done it until now.

“Over there,” Corvo pointed; an ancient, rusted ladder was barely visible above the plants. “If something is following us we should get to higher ground.”

“It doesn’t exactly look- _safe,”_ Erin said, eyeing the ladder suspiciously.

“We need to go up anyway,” Garrett said quickly. “I doubted Karras kept his lodgings on the ground floor among the factory equipment. Corvo- you go first. If it breaks you’ll be able to get yourself to safety. Erin next, then me, then Thomas.”

The ladder groaned underneath Corvo’s weight, but it held; he climbed quickly and carefully, disappearing over the top edge for a few moments. His hand reappeared over the edge, waving Erin up.

“Go,” Garrett prompted; Erin needed no further bidding and began her ascent.

“It’s getting closer,” Thomas said. “It sounds like-“

Garrett could hear it too – he turned back from watching Erin’s progress for a moment to squint down the tunnel. _Underneath_ the sounds of movement and grating metal there was- _something else._ A whirring, clicking noise that seemed to rise and fall like a _voice,_ but he couldn’t discern any words right now.

A shape appeared at the end of the corridor, a blue gleam barely discernible in the half-light.

“Go-“ Thomas said suddenly; Garrett glanced up to see Erin had made it to the top of the ladder. Thomas, in turn, lifted his left arm, a metallic _click_ sounding from under the sleeve of his jacket.

The metal was gritty under his hands, flaking and brittle. Garrett could feel minute tremors running through the entire structure as he climbed. It was slow going – he still only had use of one hand and the movement had his back straining too.

Halfway up, he paused, glancing back down at the entrance to the corridor, just as the _thing_ stepped fully into the light.

It was the same type of robot as before; a hulking mass of metal and rusted parts. Half of its head was missing – plant matter had entwined itself around part of the bot, and only the blue aiming lens remained clear. It _moved_ as if it were an old man with a limp; only one working limb and a stilted, halting gait that dragged the broken-down appendage behind it. Every time it took a step, the metal of its joints _screeched,_ and the entire room was filled with the sound of clicks and whirrs.

_“I shall-“_ the bot grated, the sound coming from somewhere within its chest compartment, but distorted by age and disrepair, “ _-find for thee-“_ a series of metallic screeches followed, any meaning in them lost to time.

Thomas had moved to hide behind the pillar, and when Garrett glanced down he saw the other man’s mask peering at the automaton as it made its way into the room.

“ _Garrett!”_ Erin hissed, above him. Garrett jolted, realising his position, and started to climb once more.

The ladder creaked and groaned under his weight; a rattle that reverberated through the entire room.

_“Indications-“_ the bot’s voice mechanism failed again, and it _squealed_ instead of saying any more words. _“Not determined,”_ Garrett made out, as he climbed higher.

_Still_ the bot moved, ever-closer to Thomas. Garrett glanced down to see him take a steadying breath, before he stepped out behind the pillar, left arm raised again.

The mechanism on his wrist – a _crossbow,_ Garrett recalled – clicked again; Garrett caught the barest glimpse of _something_ shooting out from it.

It struck the bot directly on its lens, and _screeched;_ a blinding series of flashes illuminated the entire room for a few seconds, and left Garrett blinking away stars from his vision. Thomas wasted no time – in the split second afterwards, he looked up at Garrett and _reached_ with his left hand-

-he disappeared, and Garrett suddenly felt a _twisting_ sensation in his stomach as the air directly next to him warped-

-as Thomas reappeared on the rung next to him, gripping tightly onto his shoulder, causing the ladder to _shriek_ and fully pull away from the wall-

-and the world _moved_ as Thomas pulled with his left hand again, an instant of pitch-black _nothing_ followed by the sensation of his feet landing on something solid again.

Below them, the ladder crashed to the ground, leaving the bot struggling to comprehend where its prey had gone.

_“Mal- m-malfunction-“_ the words floated up to them, stood on a platform a few metres below the ceiling.

Thomas exhaled, releasing Garrett’s shoulder and resting his (now shaking, Garrett noticed) hands on his knees as he took a few breaths.

“Sorry,” he said after a second, wearily, “I would have warned you, but-“

“It’s fine,” Garrett replied, as they were joined by Corvo and Erin – Thomas had transported them a few metres away from the pair.

“What was in that arrow?” Erin asked. “It was almost like a flash bomb, but- _worse.”_

“The design came from an associate in the south,” Thomas said. “They’re good as distractions, but they also pack a mean punch.”

“Got any more?” Corvo asked, looking past Thomas – and Garrett didn’t need to see Thomas’ face to know that he was frowning. “There’s another bot coming.”

Garrett swore, turning to see the passage Corvo was staring down – a small, stilted shape was slowly moving towards them.

_“I would hide, if I were you,”_ said the other Garrett, suddenly. _“They don’t have good lines of sight. Stay still and quiet and it’ll pass you by. Fighting it will only draw more.”_

“Hide,” Garrett repeated to the others – they all darted to the door, crouching in pairs either side of the frame as the sounds of the robot drew closer.

And there, they waited, pressing themselves into the wall as the creaks and clanks of the moving bot echoed off the walls.

_“We are- are the c-c-children of Karras,”_ said the voice, dangerously close to Garrett’s ear; he held still, as a rusted contraption creaked its way past. “ _K- K- Karras-“_ the voice warped, almost sounding _confused,_ and Garrett noted that this one was different to the combat robot that was still crashing its way around the floor below. It walked like a spider; eight legs and a rolling gait – but this, too, was warped and broken: one leg wobbled dangerously and the bot was missing an arm entirely.

“Oh, I should’ve stayed in the tavern with Basso,” Erin, next to him, breathed.

Garrett found himself silently agreeing.

On the side of the door, Corvo and Thomas also watched the bot – but when it was a suitable distance away, Corvo moved, silently moving behind the contraption.

Quickly, decisively, he let loose with a powerful kick that sent the bot sailing off the catwalk and crashing to the floor below. The bot below _screeched_ again, alerted by the sudden noise, but it soon faded into more uncertain sounds again.

Now that the threat had been removed, Garrett found himself breathing easier, closing his eyes for a brief second in relief.

“Where to now?” Erin asked.

“That way is clearer,” Thomas said, pointing to a corridor that was only covered in a sparse growth of vines. The tunnel behind them was almost completely encased – the bot’s diminutive stature had meant it had only just fit through, but a human would find it more difficult to traverse through.

Distantly, something else in the cathedral groaned again.

“Let’s go,” Corvo said, quickly.

As they moved through the corridor, Garrett saw that the vines progression had diminished, here. After the veritable forest that was growing around the door, it was almost as if they were walking into another place entirely. Here, Soulforge looked more like the cathedral-slash-factory it had once been – raised, high ceilings that funnelled heat and smoke away from the generators and equipment below. The catwalks they were moving along seemed to be mostly for surveying and repair more than movement of people – but the years of disuse and decay had made a lot of them unstable and shaky.

They moved slowly, quietly, aware of the clanking sounds of more robots moving around the cathedral, apparently unhindered by the lack of light or the reaching vines.

“Up there,” Garrett said, pointing to a window that overlooked the room. “If I were Karras, that’s where I’d be.”

_“No vines, either,”_ the other Garrett commented. _“Not bad, kid.”_

The catwalks wound around to the side of the window, but eventually they found a staircase that led to an antechamber. It was empty, devoid of vines – there wasn’t even any dust lingering on the floor here.

In front of them was a sealed door and a window that was somehow intact – crossed with metal bars that meant it wouldn’t be easy to break.

_“That’s the place,”_ the Sneak Thief said.

“He says this is it,” Garrett murmured.

“Well unless you have a sledgehammer, there’s no way we’re getting in here,” Erin said, looking at the door’s lock – entirely warped and unable to be picked.

Corvo stepped up the window, peering through it for a moment, before examining the glass and the grate itself. He pressed a hand to the edge of the frame.

“This is looser,” he said. “If something hit it hard enough it’d probably fall in.”

“That’s great – we _still_ need a sledgehammer to get through it,” Erin said, directing an annoyed look in Corvo’s direction.

“Perhaps not,” Corvo said. “Step back – I’ve got an idea.”

“Please don’t tell me you’ve got an explosive somewhere in those pockets,” Garrett said, as they moved closer to the entrance to the antechamber – Thomas was still keeping careful watch for any more patrolling robots.

“Not quite,” Corvo said. “But I’ll admit – I’ve only done this once before and it had… mixed results.”

He faced the window, drew his hand back – _his left hand,_ Garrett noticed – and then _pushed._

It wasn’t something Garrett saw as much as they all _felt –_ a sudden collapse of the air around them as it coalesced to a single point. Garrett could feel it whistling past him, through the open doorway, and the force that collided with the window did so with a sound akin to cannon fire. Dust streaked behind it, sharply colliding with the side of Garrett’s face.

And the _window-_

Despite its sturdiness, it wasn’t well-equipped to deal with such a force hitting with it. Garrett saw the glass and metalwork go sailing into the room behind it, also taking part of the Soulforge wall with it. It _crashed_ to the floor, generating an answering groan from somewhere else in the cathedral. A few tendrils of dust trickled down from the ceiling; Garrett glanced up to see a rather impressive crack had formed near where the window had joined to the wall.

Corvo pulled his arm back, flexed his fingers, the mark on the back of his palm fading to its regular black.

“Well,” Erin said, coughing out a small cloud of dust. “At least you didn’t bring the roof down on us.”

“The first time I did that,” Corvo said, “I destroyed six windows at the top of Dunwall Tower and almost broke my collarbone.”

_“Arguably, this is only a marginally better result,”_ the Sneak Thief said, causing Garrett to utter a brief laugh that he hid under the pretence of coughing due to dust. Corvo didn’t seem convinced by it.

A screech sounded in the distance, metallic and wrong and almost certainly something Garrett didn’t want to meet. They clambered through the newly-formed hole, finding that despite the fact the window now rested against the far wall, the rest of the chamber was clean. Except-

A large pile of red dust lay in the centre. Atop it, at one end, almost half-buried in the substance, was an item made of gleaming gold.

_“Karras,”_ the other Garrett said, something harshly satisfied in his tone.

“That’s him,” Garrett told the others, eyeing the headpiece – all that remained of the first and last Mechanist prophet.

“Wait, so all this dust-“ Erin began.

“Yes,” Garrett replied, simply.

Thomas froze, foot awkwardly suspended over a small gathering of the dust. He gingerly placed it to the side, and instead crouched to inspect it.

“There’s a book here,” Corvo said, from the far side of the room. He flipped it open, scanning the page.

_“The New Scripture of the Master Builder,”_ he read aloud, before frowning. “I’ve read enough Overseer texts to know this isn’t going to help.”

“There’s a door over here,” Erin said, from the far side of the room. “Looks as though this one’s survived better.”

She crouched, setting about picking the lock, as Garrett turned his attention back to the rest of the room.

It was easy to see how it had once been opulent – fine carpet, furnishings, and hints of gold in a lot of corners. But there was also something _mournful_ about the place – all this finery unused, the entire cathedral fallen to ruin and its creator nothing more than a golden crown at the centre of it all.

_“Hey kid – do me a favour,”_ the other Garrett said, suddenly. _“Go pick up Karras’ stupid headpiece.”_

“Why?” he asked in reply, slowly moving towards the other end of the dust pile.

_“So you can break the damned thing in half.”_

Garrett froze, one hand outstretched, raising an eyebrow.

_“If I had hands I’d do it myself, but you’re the one piloting the body here.”_

“I’m not- I’m not here to fulfil all your petty needs, you know,” Garrett protested, but was cut off by Erin’s triumphant noise of success.

“You’ve gotten slow,” he called, more out of an old habit than anything – before breaking off and wincing inwardly.

_It’s not how it was before._

And yet-

“Shut up, old man,” Erin called back – another old habit of hers – pulling open the door.

_“Dangerous conditions-“_

The door slammed shut – trapping the arm of a combat bot inside it and snapping the brittle appendage off at what would have been a real person’s elbow.

“All right,” Erin said, now leaning against the door. “Let’s not go that way.”

Corvo muttered a brief expletive, drawing his sword and crossing to the door, putting his own weight against it.

“Please tell me those picks can lock the door, too,” he said to her, as it started to rattle behind him.

Erin crouched again, set about worming her picks into the lock again. The door _crashed,_ moving a full inch before Corvo managed to hold it again, and the sounds of very angry bots could be heard screeching outside.

“Maybe we could-“ Garrett began, eyes falling upon a contraption of sorts that was placed against the window that overlooked the rest of Soulforge. “Thomas. Give me a hand with this.”

“What are we going to do with this?” Thomas asked, hands skimming over the ancient console.

“If Karras made these bots it stands to reason that _something_ on this control panel is how he did it. We just need to find out which one.”

Without further ado, he pressed one of the buttons. The console _rattled,_ and something else in the cathedral _groaned,_ but it didn’t stop the tumult of bots from outside the door.

“Keep going,” he said to Thomas. “There are a lot of buttons here.”

“Would it have killed him to _label_ them?” Thomas muttered to himself, haphazardly pressing a few buttons.

Something about them _crackled,_ and then-

_“Who is Karras, but the hand of the Builder?”_ began a loudspeaker above them – and Garrett could tell that it was echoing through the entire building, considering the way distant parts of the structure were shrieking in response. _“What the Builder wills, Karras does-“_

“By the Gods, shut him up,” Garrett groaned, as the door made another worrisome _crash._

“Move faster!” Corvo called – although Garrett wasn’t certain whether that was to Erin or to him-

_Crack!_

Garrett blinked, registering the sawblade that had suddenly lodged itself in the console next to his hand. He turned, quickly, to see that one of the eight-legged robots had somehow made its way into the room, crawling through the newly-made hole.

_“Move!”_ he shouted, grabbing onto the thick material of Thomas’ jacket and hauling him away from the console as the bot launched another blade towards them.

“What the _fuck_ is that thing?” Erin called.

“Keep working!” Garrett called back. “We’ll deal with this.”

He drew his bow, unsure of the best place to even _start_ defending himself against the bot. It was in a fairly decent condition – still rusty and sporting a small growth of plant matter, but at somepoint a casing had cracked and the entire machine was leaking oil over itself, meaning it moved quieter than its counterparts.

“ _They have a weak spot on their back,”_ the Sneak Thief said. _“But if you try and blow it up you might take the entire place down with it.”_

“Get me behind it,” Garrett said to Thomas, pulling out an arrow and notching it. Thomas nodded, grasped onto his shoulder-

-and they traversed, blinking between worlds for a moment-

-reappearing behind the bot, where Garrett released his arrow, aiming at a port on the robot’s rear.

He wasn’t entirely sure what to expect, but he’d gone with the general notion that whatever power that was running through the robot’s mechanisms. The _water_ arrow seemed to do the trick, causing a series of sparks to explode from the back of the robot as it attempted to turn to face them. It shuddered to a halt, frozen in place and almost crumpling in on itself as it powered down.

“How many of _those_ do you have?” Thomas asked. “We’ve got three more coming towards us.”

Before Garrett could respond, another _crash_ sounded from the door, but this time it was followed by something _else._ A _rush_ of noise, swift movement that reminded Garrett of a blustery day that shook trees from their roots, and then-

They heard the robots moving, a grating noise followed it, and then the sound of something _very_ heavy being slammed into a wall. The subsequent rattle of parts gave Garrett the impression that whatever had happened had shattered the robot to pieces.

_Crack!_

Another sawblade lodged itself into the wall nearby, missing Thomas’ arm by inches.

“I say we take our chances with whatever’s out there,” Erin called, giving up on locking the door and instead yanking it open. Garrett and Thomas quickly hurried to join them, keeping a careful eye on the robot that was attempting to make its way into the room.

As they reached the door, Garrett got a brief glimpse of vines racing backwards down the corridor – moving in no way plants ever could. Their _source_ was a figure, stood at the far end of the catwalk, leaning on a staff of some sort. From what Garrett could tell, they were wearing a series of wrapped furs and a _headdress_ of some sort – a _deer skull?_

_“A Pagan,”_ the other Garrett said suddenly – almost _surprised._

“A who?” Garrett replied, as they quickly closed the door behind them.

“ _The people you call the Woodsie Folk – Viktoria’s people.”_

“Do we go to him?” Erin asked, jerking her head to the figure, who was still watching them.

“He’s one of the Woodsie Folk,” Garrett replied. “Maybe he-“

_Crack!_

The sawblade had actually penetrated the metal of the door; they all paused to look at it for a moment.

“He’s not attacked us yet,” Corvo said. “If we stay here we’re only going to attract more robots.”

“You manfools planning on sticking around until the bots kill you?!” hollered the Pagan.

“I’d say he’s on our side,” Erin said, turning and starting to move towards him.

As they drew closer, Garrett got a better impression of the person who’d apparently saved them – young, with markings painted in green on his face and arms. His hair was blond, long, tied on one side and shaved on the other. The _skull_ was almost haphazardly placed on his head, but it showed no signs of falling off as the stranger twirled his staff and launched another set of vines towards the door they’d left behind.

“ _First,”_ he said, when they were within earshot, “I’m gonna ask which one of you turned on the loudspeaker.”

“He did,” Garrett pointed to Thomas.

_“Second,”_ continued the Pagan, “I’m gonna ask who blew a hole in the wall of Karras’ room.”

Garrett silently pointed to Corvo, who returned it with a glare.

“Nice job,” said the Pagan, surprisingly, grinning widely sticking his hand out for Corvo to shake. “I’ve been trying to break into that place for _years._ You gotta show me how you did it.”

“Maybe somewhere else?” Corvo said, entirely bemused but shaking the proffered hand all the same.

The door behind them was suddenly torn open with a shriek of metal, and the noises of the bots suddenly echoed around the hall, followed by the sounds of crunching metal as the vines made short work of them.

“Oh, right – ‘course,” said the Pagan. “Follow me.”

“To _where,_ exactly?” Erin asked, as they followed him all the same.

“To the _sanctuary,_ of course,” said the Pagan. He broke off for a moment, turning to face them properly again. “You did all come here to see Viktoria, right? You didn’t just- come to destroy my house or something.”

“Uh- yes?” Garrett ventured.

“Well let’s stop larkin’ about with the Mechanist death machines and _go,_ then,” the Pagan said, irritated, turning back and setting a remarkably quick pace across the catwalk, uncaring of the cacophony of robots behind him.

_“He_ does _know she’s dead, right?”_ the other Garrett asked.

“You tell me,” Garrett muttered in reply.

_“Pagans were always a weird bunch.”_

The Pagan led them into an alcove, wherein they gathered around a hole that appeared to go nowhere except _down._ A vine dangled from the ceiling, and it was this that the Pagan gestured to.

“C’mon,” he said. “Let’s get out of this place. Gives me the creeps.”

Corvo went first – they repeated the order they’d taken ascending the ladder earlier, except this time the Pagan went last. The sounds of screeching metal above him had Garrett assuming that he was dealing with more of the robots.

Eventually, they reached the bottom – found themselves in a long stone tunnel that sloped slightly downward.

_“This wasn’t here before,”_ the Sneak Thief said.

“ _Where_ are we?” Garrett asked, as the Pagan pushed his way past to lead them. “Where are we going?”

“First: to safety,” the Pagan said. “The bots won’t leave the confines of the cathedral but they’re not above trying to shoot their bombs down here.”

“And then?” Erin asked – Garrett noticed that her hand was straying towards her dagger.

“And _then_ we’re going to the Sanctuary,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

He turned away, started to tread his way down the path, illuminating the way with a gem that glowed atop his staff. A blue light, Garrett noted.

“We don’t really have many other options,” Corvo said quietly.

“Keep up, manfools!” called the Pagan. “You don’t want to keep Viktoria waiting!”

* * *

 

_But when Zarathustra was alone, he spoke thus to his heart:  
"Could it be possible! This old saint has not heard in his forest that God is dead!"_

_Friederich Nietzsche; **Thus Spoke Zarathustra** (trans. R. J. Hollingdale)_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna tell you now - two Garretts is goddamn complicated and part of me hates myself for it.
> 
> The pagan at the end is an OC of sneaky-taffer's and my small way of giving my eternal thanks for her help in the fic.
> 
> Another note: the song I imagine that plays in the Sirens Rest while Corvo is outside is Lankum's "What Will We Do When We Have No Money?". I saw them live recently and fell in love with this song.
> 
> Golly I always forget what I want to write here when I type these up. But thanks to everyone for the continued support - and hey, shall we ballpark another chapter by christmas?

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at wardens-oath.tumblr.com


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